On Forgetting How To Art

Blank. My mind is so blank. My heart is so full and my mind is so blank. It's been a while since I've felt like I'm i...

Blank. My mind is so blank. My heart is so full and my mind is so blank.


It's been a while since I've felt like I'm in a good place when it came to my life and sense of self. I am good. Et encore. 

And yet.

I am struggling with my creativity and degradation of the talent I've grown up thinking I ha(ve)d. Then again, name me an artist that hasn't gone through some sort of personal artistic crisis. My heart is so full and I've forgotten how to art

Every once in a while, I think to myself that maybe my sadness did drive the creativity of my soul -ah, to be young with a lot of complicated (and sometimes entitled) feelings. My world used to be so small, and I treated every small thing like a fight to the death. I have never had any difficulty expressing myself artistically, and I guess I can attribute that to sheer amount of raw personal feels I used to have -ah, to be a teenager. I have been lucky to have experienced the more unpleasant things earlier on in life, and am now able to live pretty comfortably. It's disconcerting to me that I now know so much, and yet I can produce so little when it comes to a language I've always thought I was fluent in.

I have been asked about why I didn't go into an Arts related career and I guess it's because I've learned that there's a difference in choosing a career based on being an artist and choosing a career based on being artistic. I am not an artist, and I would rather put myself in an environment that allows me to be creative instead. The passion I have for art is a selfish one. I don't want to change the world through the things I create. I want to let the world know that I am trying to be both one with it, and a separate part of it -that the things I make don't quite matter as much as the idea that I have the power to. To matter. To be.

This post has been sitting in my drafts for a couple of months now because I've been trying to figure out a way to bridge the gap between my joy at the experiences, ideas, and concepts I am so lucky to have to share, and the sadness at not being able to express it to the same degree I used to.

The kind of art I make is different now. There is a disconnect between my head and my hand, as if my heart was trying to intercept the message, and turning it into a propaganda of what I can say instead of what I'm already saying. What I'm terrified of is the possibility of finding out that what I'm already saying is so uninspired that I have to resort to grasping at something shallow to turn into something pretty -the possibility that this time, it's my heart trying to protect my head. My mind tells me it's a matter of unpolished skill, but my heart knows it's a lack of zest. Or rather, a lack of creative angst. I fear the conclusion that I only exist in this world when I am sad. That I only have power behind my art when it is fueling an empty heart. That I can only matter if I can tell the world I hurt as much as it does.

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