on art

Sometimes I wonder why I am doing all this.

Wouldn't it be better just waking up in a forest, stretching out and create and create and create, just for the sake of it?

What is it all this promotion for and readings and flights taken and e-mails sent and calls made? What is the sense of it? What for?

Would it all have more sense if it took me further, somewhere better, somewhere where my name has a sort of importance?

What does importance exactly mean?

And when is somebody really an artist? Does the mere fact of producing a piece of art make you an artist even if you don't share it, you don't present it to an audience?

When does somebody start to be a poet and not just somebody throwing ink on pages?

Am I questioning my being a writer just because I lack fame?

Is it fame what makes the difference?

I am thinking and re-thinking about that and I cannot really reach any conclusion this morning, this morning in which I woke up and the only thing I desired was sleeping among your arms...I am questioning it when this flight is taking me away from you, another time.

And at the same time, even if often I cannot find the motivation of all this, I know I have to do it , I know my essence would not be the same without this almost vain expenditure of energy...

and I find myself caught in this whirl of doubt and uncertainty, once anew.