I know why some artists burn all their material near the ends of their lives.
I know when I go, I'm tempted to take everything with me. You see some sort of value in anything I did, you should given me some sort of good cheer for it, something I could take some satisfaction from in return, while I was alive. Otherwise, when I go, it goes.
Not that I'm thinking about checking out anytime soon. Or that I'll definitely delete everything before I do.
Perhaps feeling a bit unappreciated, though. I don't do much for anyone's approval other than my own, but enough shows of disinterest from the world at large do occasionally drag even the most self-sufficient of spirits down a bit. And lately, there've been a few.
And as I round the further corners of middle age, still feeling, rather more keenly than I'd prefer, the difficulty in getting any sort of satisfaction in life beyond what I can provide for myself, I understand fearing that maybe the same world that mostly didn't treat you like you feel you deserved to be treated might suddenly take an interest in the direct fruits of who you were after you're no longer around to play a role in it, and not feel like you're obligated to provide that opportunity.
