11:37 PM on Monday, October 19. 2009
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... This is the third time I've started this post. The other two times got destroyed in one way or another. I just don't understand what's wrong with me. It's like I'm trying to sabotage myself and my artistic pursuits. I don't know what to do with myself.
It's really too bad, too, because it was turning out to be a pretty good ramble about life and lost dreams. Why don't we see if we can recapture some of that, eh?
Life is a funny thing. When you're young, you're free to dream all you like because you have no life experience to stop you, and you haven't developed that nagging voice that tells you that you're not good enough or that you don't have it in you. I really wish, for just a few minutes, I had the same ambition I had when I was younger. I would keep my acquired skills, of course.
I found myself in the art supply isle at Michael's yesterday, staring at the large display of potential dreams. I used to be so giddy in that isle, and I knew that as soon as I got home with my new pencil, paper or marker, I'd be doing some new masterpiece. But yesterday, I just stared, feeling an emptiness inside myself that I've never felt before. I wished with all my heart that one of these shiny new things would cure all my problems, but I knew that it was futile. Nothing I would buy would solve any of my problems.
The problem is that I'm shutting off from my emotions. I numb myself with hours of house work, followed by mindless gaming and reading silly, meaningless crap on the internet. I'm no longer in touch with the person that I know I am. I'm an emotional, deeply feeling person! I cry at the drop of a hat, both in sadness and joy. My heart is perpetually on my sleeve, and I feel badly for hours after I miss a chance to help someone out.
Where have I put this person? Why am I denying my feelings? What's wrong with being open and free with oneself?
I feel constrained with my art and writing. I write this blog as if someone is going to read it. That sounds ridiculous, because that's what a blog is about, but people act differently when they know someone is watching. I try to write about things that I think you'll be interested in, but you know what? That just makes it harder for me to write, and of course I end up just abandoning it altogether. So screw that.
I'm the same with my art. Every singe piece of art that I've done in the last two or three years has been taken to a final version. Do you understand what I'm saying? I never sketch, never doodle or goof around. I never experiment or draft or draw simply for the pleasure of it. I feel as though I'm being more professional, but in truth all I'm doing is driving my muse away. And it's already very fragile as it is.
What am I doing?
So to heck with the crowd. I'm done trying to please people that don't pay attention anyway. From now on I'm just doing this for me.
It's really too bad, too, because it was turning out to be a pretty good ramble about life and lost dreams. Why don't we see if we can recapture some of that, eh?
Life is a funny thing. When you're young, you're free to dream all you like because you have no life experience to stop you, and you haven't developed that nagging voice that tells you that you're not good enough or that you don't have it in you. I really wish, for just a few minutes, I had the same ambition I had when I was younger. I would keep my acquired skills, of course.
I found myself in the art supply isle at Michael's yesterday, staring at the large display of potential dreams. I used to be so giddy in that isle, and I knew that as soon as I got home with my new pencil, paper or marker, I'd be doing some new masterpiece. But yesterday, I just stared, feeling an emptiness inside myself that I've never felt before. I wished with all my heart that one of these shiny new things would cure all my problems, but I knew that it was futile. Nothing I would buy would solve any of my problems.
The problem is that I'm shutting off from my emotions. I numb myself with hours of house work, followed by mindless gaming and reading silly, meaningless crap on the internet. I'm no longer in touch with the person that I know I am. I'm an emotional, deeply feeling person! I cry at the drop of a hat, both in sadness and joy. My heart is perpetually on my sleeve, and I feel badly for hours after I miss a chance to help someone out.
Where have I put this person? Why am I denying my feelings? What's wrong with being open and free with oneself?
I feel constrained with my art and writing. I write this blog as if someone is going to read it. That sounds ridiculous, because that's what a blog is about, but people act differently when they know someone is watching. I try to write about things that I think you'll be interested in, but you know what? That just makes it harder for me to write, and of course I end up just abandoning it altogether. So screw that.
I'm the same with my art. Every singe piece of art that I've done in the last two or three years has been taken to a final version. Do you understand what I'm saying? I never sketch, never doodle or goof around. I never experiment or draft or draw simply for the pleasure of it. I feel as though I'm being more professional, but in truth all I'm doing is driving my muse away. And it's already very fragile as it is.
What am I doing?
So to heck with the crowd. I'm done trying to please people that don't pay attention anyway. From now on I'm just doing this for me.
My life is art. When I dream, my imagination flies, and when I wake, it tells its story on paper with pen. And when I look out a window, I see endless possibilities. But I have a long way to go still on my journey through the clouds of art and imagination. Won't you join me?
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