the proportions of crisis: in reaction to "art school confidential"

so i just got back from this incredible independent film in this quaint theatre i recently discovered, with my friend. its called art school confidential, the film that is. i would have appreciated it no matter what but it definitely affected my experience, the fact that i just took a class called art and literature last semester, in which we really covered a lot of literature regarding art and watched the interpretation of two of the novels we read into film. so there was an additional cerebral layer added to my viewing of the film...which was both enriching, and yet exhausting, i was forced to see the film analytically, forced to filter it through my previous knowledge of the subject, forced to understand the exact relationship of ideas being portrayed through the characters and events. add to that my own artistic flair and a common sense of desperation with the main character, it was intense. as most things in my life are. i would say that the film essentially is about originality/creativity and the natural self as most films/literature about art are. and i must say it just served to highlight and accentuate my current state of futility...if that makes sense grammatically. as the film opens up and the main character's voice is heard stating that he is the greatest artist of the century...so it turns out he was acting out picasso in a school presentation. but regardless, in truth, this is how the boy feels, and when he grows up he honestly wants to be the greatest artist of the century. but the truth is, so what. so what if i indeed reached that apex of creativity in any of my areas of interest, if i maxed out and tapped into something unique. would it really be unique? its possible that someone else could get to the same point as well. and even if not, what is the point of uniqueness anyway? why is it so qualitatively better than the regular? why do we have this desire to be original? why do i carry this perpetual nagging sense of angst over my need to be significant, unique, a one time occurrence? i know i do, and the cliche-ness and triteness of even the most unique of things drives me mad. but why does it drive me mad? what is so qualitatively better about being a monumental artist? there are inevitably more than one, as each revolution brings on new ideas. and even if i was "the one", why does that matter? why do i need perfection and truth anyway? what would it matter if i produced a piece of writing that achieved literary excellence in a way never done before, or a film that was gripping, emotive and technically brilliant. what would it matter if i tapped into a musical world that was as close to pure thought as humanly conceivable? what would any of it matter? and at this moment the words that keep resonating in my head are the opening lines to Lonely Man: an awareness that often assumes the proportions of crisis. perhaps if i didnt have a bazillion abilities and the stark awareness that i will never ever ever actualize all of my creative capacity even in a single area because i am involved in so many...sometimes i think it is so much healthier when you only have one thing that you are good at. then you can focus and accomplish and live. but when creativity and meaning, when the truth it self, is pulling at you from 18 different directions, each one attempting to win you over to dedicate yourself to it. and maybe none of it is important and all that matters is thought...and maybe thought doesnt matter and all that matters if the sensual experience of the present...and maybe even that is futile and all that matters is love...but is that even achievable?