Where It Stops, Nobody Knows

I fear I am disillusioned with art. All arts. I can do anything; I can do nothing; nothing I do is worth anything; I can rely on the scaffold of my skill and an eager world; I cannot even break even; I'm ignoring what's right in front of me; there is nothing there at all.

It would seem that I am turning, but to which direction I'm not sure. It seems likely I can determine the final direction. The problem is: Should I? Is it mine to determine? Am I more likely to drive into a ditch than choose what is best?

My sense is that I have bought some lies, some very dangerous, negative lies, which (like all of their race) masquerade as sense and caution. It is hard to tell what is the truth, at this point. Emotion has always been the worst and cloudiest state for me, and knowing it is so is only a partial help to clear the air again. Fear is a worse killer than foolhardiness, since it causes things to lie down and die of their own accord, a guaranteed loss against an opponent which might not even exist.

Experience tells me that accomplishment, actual doing, is what will move me from the noxious fog. Fear of failing is what weighs me down. Experience joins in on both sides of this: I know my weaknesses, or think I know, though whether they are lies I can't tell, but the knowledge gives a panicked edge to things. And I also know that risking usually proves a problem false, and minor failures almost directly build toward success. It's a good thing experience tells me this, because nothing else does, right now.

I know generally what to do, just not where to start. Perhaps with the more guaranteed accomplishments.