Who cares about your posts on Facebook?
Who cares about your pictures of with your pets (or pests), your family, your significant other, or your favorite bottle of beer?
Who cares if you liked the movie Alphaville?
Who cares if you listen to The Residents, (or Insert name of an obscure band here)
No one, perhaps. Maybe a couple of your friends do. Okay, maybe five of your classmates in college do (that’s being optimistic)
Your Grammar Nazi Facebook pal might has her prying eye on your next post, dying to penalize you with next mix up of “Your” and “You’re”
Seriously, do these things really matter?
Too anxious of what to say when you’re with a group of people talking about their interests?
Too worried about the possibility of alienating yourself with your obscure taste in music, movies, literature and whatnot?
If these annoying thoughts had been arrested, it could have saved people struggling with anxiety of extreme case. It could have improved my personal life tenfold.
This post started out with the thought, “Who cares?” And this is could be one probable reason I wasn’t able to write an entry in months. My thoughts were defeated. Everytime, I get excited about an idea, “Who cares?” Just creeps up.
But how can music as obscure as that as that of Merzbow/ John Cage’s 4’33” could find its audience just baffles me. Why do some folks revere David Lynch, given the peculiarity of his works?
One thing did stick out: These artists cared about their own ideas.
Ideas, whether it’s art or in real life, will find an audience themselves. Just shoot for it.
If not, don’t dwell on it.
If the writing communicates and stirs something within someone, it’s beautiful. If not, well, it can’t be helped.
Take it easy, my friend.