Arts And Found
For as long as I can remember I have loved art. And not just any art, all art. From my very first conscious sight in that day care, where the kid across from me was having his birthday party, and we were all celebrating with a large white cake, I could remember being led around by my heart strings to the tune of all that is art and artistic in this world. At my very core creativity is surely the thing that defines me.
Until, I lost it all few years ago.
Well... I felt as though I lost it all, anyway. Somedays, I'm not so sure. Mostly, and what is a great surprise to me, I feel as though I may still have a few dribbles of the stuff left in me. And I have been holding onto it for dear life ever since.
Where I once wrote effortlessly in the past, coining words together and stringing letters along like it was second nature to me, I now find myself struggling to link any feint incantation or sentence together. The ease of it all failed me.
It was the betrayal that hurt the most, I think. Feeling as if my craft just up and left me with no explanation. As if we had an argument one night and it decided that it would do better elsewhere. Granted, I admit, that it was my own undoing. I didn't used that part of my brain, for a while, instead left it to rust and stagnate over time. But when it left me, when it seeped into the ether of the universe without my say so, or want, it hurt more than even my own words could express.
The pain was so deep it kept me stunned for years. Stunned and immobile. It sunk so far down inside of me it felt like I had a massive crevasse within my soul, a gaping maw where my talent had once been. A creative graveyard, as it were.
A place where my spirit was abandoned and left wanting.
Most days I found it hard to breath.
It wasn't just my flare for writing that I lost, either. It was also my creative way of thinking, my way to introspectively evaluate a painting or sculpture, or piece of music. My way to express what I was feeling or seeing in any work of art in front of me.
My ability to come up with new ideas came next, an act that lead me to doubt whether I'd ever had a true creative, or original thought in my whole life.
Yet, despite all of this, I find myself fighting, daily, for what little remains of my creativity, my true self, with something akin to a death grip to rival all others.
It's a horrible feeling to look back on your life and see something that you've lost, just flying around on the periphery, so close to you yet so far out of reach.
You spend your days just asking yourself, can I ever get it back? Will it ever be the same if I do? Is it worth it to even try?
For me the answer is,... well,... yes, apparently.
You see, despite the lack of drive on my soul's part, my body has compelled me to compose a little bit everyday of whatever my mind's eye can come up with at the time. A phrase here, a thought there. It all just keeps adding up to...well, to what, I'm not really sure. Yet.
All I know for now is that, for this little window that keeps on opening to me, I am eternally grateful.
Until, I lost it all few years ago.
Well... I felt as though I lost it all, anyway. Somedays, I'm not so sure. Mostly, and what is a great surprise to me, I feel as though I may still have a few dribbles of the stuff left in me. And I have been holding onto it for dear life ever since.
Where I once wrote effortlessly in the past, coining words together and stringing letters along like it was second nature to me, I now find myself struggling to link any feint incantation or sentence together. The ease of it all failed me.
It was the betrayal that hurt the most, I think. Feeling as if my craft just up and left me with no explanation. As if we had an argument one night and it decided that it would do better elsewhere. Granted, I admit, that it was my own undoing. I didn't used that part of my brain, for a while, instead left it to rust and stagnate over time. But when it left me, when it seeped into the ether of the universe without my say so, or want, it hurt more than even my own words could express.
The pain was so deep it kept me stunned for years. Stunned and immobile. It sunk so far down inside of me it felt like I had a massive crevasse within my soul, a gaping maw where my talent had once been. A creative graveyard, as it were.
A place where my spirit was abandoned and left wanting.
Most days I found it hard to breath.
It wasn't just my flare for writing that I lost, either. It was also my creative way of thinking, my way to introspectively evaluate a painting or sculpture, or piece of music. My way to express what I was feeling or seeing in any work of art in front of me.
My ability to come up with new ideas came next, an act that lead me to doubt whether I'd ever had a true creative, or original thought in my whole life.
Yet, despite all of this, I find myself fighting, daily, for what little remains of my creativity, my true self, with something akin to a death grip to rival all others.
It's a horrible feeling to look back on your life and see something that you've lost, just flying around on the periphery, so close to you yet so far out of reach.
You spend your days just asking yourself, can I ever get it back? Will it ever be the same if I do? Is it worth it to even try?
For me the answer is,... well,... yes, apparently.
You see, despite the lack of drive on my soul's part, my body has compelled me to compose a little bit everyday of whatever my mind's eye can come up with at the time. A phrase here, a thought there. It all just keeps adding up to...well, to what, I'm not really sure. Yet.
All I know for now is that, for this little window that keeps on opening to me, I am eternally grateful.
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