True Art

This is my very first attempt at dramatic prose. it was partly sparked by a thought that has been racing around in my head all day about the value of true art and not selling out.

I sit here and I write, what am I writing? Some kind of sanctimonious testimonial about how the world would be a better place if there wasn’t so much violence on the street. What the fuck do I know about street violence, I sit her in my room typing away at my computer about things I pretend to know about educating the readers of my column about something I have no idea about myself. I write about street violence but I’ve never been harassed, and I make these guys out to be malicious fucking thugs yet I have absolutely no idea, granted they most likely would be, but how can I write about something I have no experience or idea about. Yes I can read statistics saying that crime is up 12% from last year, I can sit and let the media tell me that if I step outside to buy some milk I’m going to get fucking stabbed, but most of that crap is utter bullshit. I have become what every aspiring university writer always says they will never become, a corporate whore, writing feel good pieces on cat fashion shows or a old ladies that lived to one-hundred and ten. And when a topic that is serious and informative comes my way, I have nothing to write about. University students tell people that they will never sell out, never demean their craft but you know what, it’s the only way to fucking survive, True art is dead, the only form art left is diluted into mother-fucking trash that serves only as either a petty amusement or space in between ads for tampons. We believe that as artists we make a difference, we are wrong.