On hate

There is a man whose art I hate, because I do not understand it. His prolific output also greatly worries me. It seems pointless, and I choose to disregard the meaning that he seeks from his body of work.

I wish he would stop doing what he does. But I always exhort people to make art, no matter how shitty it is, because it puts them on a path that they will be grateful for having chosen to walk.

I have a disdain for certain subjects, and that disdain spills over into the person who chooses to associate themselves with that object. It is the filter that I choose to view the world with. A filter made of hate, supported by revulsion.

Hate is an exhausting way to engage with the world. I mostly make sense of the world around me by gauging the levels of hate that it engenders in me. It informs me to not waste time on the things I hate, and it shuts off that entire world to me, leaving me devoid of the insights that it just might offer.

Hate, hate, hate.

Sometimes more powerful than love. But I am not as cruel as I make myself out to be. There is an almost constant tussle between this hate and love, and it is so much more easier to let the hate win. To just give in.

The tussle is demanding though. It demands a lot of energy, energy that would otherwise be spent in some idealistic endeavour. At least, that’s what the inherent idealism in me chooses to make me believe.

It takes real, conscious effort to guide myself with love. Somedays it feels like too much of an effort. I feel almost as if I deserve to just feel the hate, in some perverted sense of self-indulgence, and allow it envelop me. It almost feels righteous.

I do not know of a solution. I sometimes hate looking for resolutions. I would rather prefer to play around, and highlight the conflict that seems to be endemic in our mammalian brains. To just plant the seed, and to let the tree fend for itself. It would be interesting to see what it looks like in a few years.