More and more as time passes, it seems like there really isn’t anyone out there quite like me. No one writes quite the way I do, or believes in things I do. Subtle differences in the ingredients make one opinion completely different than another, I guess. Plenty of people out there fascinate me but the differences are always a little sad, and a little necessary. I mean who the hell am I if I find someone that echoes me completely? A mirage, a pale imitation of something else that’s already out there?
I imagine it’d feel that way.
There’s this guy who talks about art, writing, and life a lot, tangles them up together just as they ought to be, and I love reading about his understanding of those things. So like my own, but with the smallest of differences. The biggest of which might be his own tone, his own cadence and rhythm as he lays it all out. But then there are the other things, the requests for help, for donations. Sometimes for publishing his finished novels (which isn’t all that cheap to do, fyi) and sometimes for other things. Medical bills weighing down on him, rent, electricity. He bets on himself and his writing, so now and then he finds himself in a bind. Over and over it seems, and for all the thousands of people he can reach not that many are willing to help.
I’m not, and that’s mostly because I’m selfish and proud, to proud to go around asking the way he does. Sure I might invite people to pitch in if ever I finish something long enough to constitute a whole book, but I would have a very hard time admitting the need or pleading to anyone.
No, stubbornly and cleverly is how I’d go about it. Never arrogant enough to say I don’t need help, but always taking great pains to make it seem like I don’t. If I ever need money from others to push things along, to bring something to fruition, I hope I’m able to get it with charm. See… I can’t beg like that, at least I don’t think I can. I would need to do it in a way that I felt I didn’t owe anyone anything in exchange except for putting that money to use to create the piece of art it was given for. It wouldn’t be charity, it would be a small, negligible investment.
Maybe it’s not a huge difference, but that’s one example of what I mean when I say there doesn’t seem to be anyone quite like me. And there shouldn’t be, I don’t know why I’m suddenly fixating on that fact right now. It’s just that for some reason the notion is hitting me full force, that no one can do what I do, say what I might say, and certainly not in the same way I would. I’m, well, I guess I’m just a little astonished at the nature of our isolation from each other, even the ones I most identify with. We’re the same in so many ways, sure, but then we’re also not the same at all. It’s not a new realization, but… I’m feeling it vividly at the moment.
Even the ones we feel closest to, most similar to, are so very different from ourselves.
So strangely apart from each other.