Artistry reveals the artist. Each pen stroke, each word, shows an echo of the truth. Only the greatest or most banal of artists can create a world which does not reveal a truth, a secret of their being. To create is to reveal. To disguise, elaborately, in art some truth.
And we grow afraid.
What if some other were to see the truth concealed therein and recoil from the artist? What if a work reveals too much? So we bury ourselves in images and characters, levels and layers, that maybe a scholar or a friend might find themselves arguing one interpretation or another, and in their conflict never reveal the truth. We hope, in vanity, only to reveal too much to those that seek the same truth that resides within us.
At times, in fear, we hide the words or suppress them. I have sat many times with heavy words on my mind, too afraid to pen them, lest they were seen. And how great an indictment on my friends, my loved ones, that I don’t trust them to see an echo of my mortal being, reflected thinly in some clichéd dirge about a faraway kingdom or an epic conquest. How vain to be afraid! For I of all should know that so few see through the words, and how many are merely caught in what they see of themselves reflected back.
Sometimes the mere presence of words is troubling.
Even should I keep a small book, pages pressed against my breast, with me at all times, the words still exist. They speak some tragic thing that should have remained unspoken, and they torment me, and they trouble me until the words sprawl themselves on the wall and I, in guilt, destroy them.
Somewhere, a pretty tale about a maiden in the woods gathers dust, as I fear that you will spot me in the forest and love me less for what I feel.