Dying art...

My writing has dropped off, I know. No one really cares and that's perfectly OK with me. This is just as much about a discovery for me as it is a discovery for anyone who stumbles upon it to learn about me. I feel less and less motivated to write lately, yet I am finding some aspects of life that I don't think I'd otherwise feel about if I didn't come out with the simple truth that is inside my heart this last year.

I've confirmed that guilt is not my happy place. Anxiety is not either. The only one that matters at this point is me, and as selfish as that sounds there is really nothing wrong with it. We are allowed to love ourselves and we don't need confirmation from anyone else. I've learned that walking away is sometimes the best thing to do when life isn't going as planned, yet giving up is not an option either.

I've been noticeably weaker lately. I'm tired. I want to sleep because I like it. I want to say nothing sometimes because that's truly what's on my mind. I've spent enough of my life being crucified for not talking, or talking too much to really give a shit anymore.

What I want to create feels like a painting I haven't painted yet. I'm sitting in a run down old studio apartment in a city I'm still itching to love with a huge blank canvas ahead of me. Every random thing I do in life seems to be merely the motion of lazily dropping the brush in the paint jar, picking it up and slopping a line or two for me to look at and say "no... that's not quite right..." and then I rub it off and try to start again. My canvas has the undertones of black and gray along with bright blues reds and greens. All smudged out with a full canvas waiting to be made love to. My art is my life and my life is at a standstill. I know what I want to paint. I can see it clearly yet just like Picasso can't be told to paint a masterpiece on demand, there's nothing that can be done to me at this point to force it out. I may never be remembered as anything great. I'm simply a memory of those who have crossed my path and may or may not still be in my life.

I'm standing, waiting, with brush in hand, dying to turn my back on the world and put my love of the fire inside me that I cannot deny onto this huge canvas that has been given to me. For some the traditional arts is their way of communicating emotions. I've tried to pick up a few instruments yet I've had little luck in channeling the energy to learn the technical aspect. Same as dance or song. Oh, how I'd love to be able to sing. As for me, my instrument is life itself. Orchestrating movements in a world that otherwise makes no sense. Every brush stroke has meaning yet all I want to do at times is tear the canvas down and start completely anew.

It's the moment of inspiration that we all seem to be needing. Even those who are on a path of altruism have room for more. At this specific point in time I am setting the brush down to walk to an area of life that seemingly does me no good. What is good will come to me, I know.