I am an artist.
I have never enjoyed being in the city for more than a few days. I love to roll around in the sand/dirt/grass, walk barefoot, grow out my leg hair, pet every dog, say hi to every lizard, let the small bugs crawl around on my hand before sending them off into the air. I feel things deeply, as if every word spoken to me or around me touches my very roots. I love to see the moon and the stars shine right above me, as I soak up the glow and let it dance on my skin. Where do I put all this emotion? It doesn’t flow from my lips into the air. I’ve learned it dissipates too quickly this way. Is it all on the canvas? Is this why I am an artist? Sometimes it feels like too far a jump. Not enough steps in between. How can I take such raw, unfiltered emotions and just project them into the paint?
Maybe I’ve been living part of a lie. A lie that says, “ You are all there, you are complete, for all to see.” This is a lie, and I know it. I am not all there, not everyone can see me. I have been hiding, keeping myself safe from any hurt or rejection. But how can I hide myself from truth and love, while I expose myself to the elements? I let the soles of my feet soak in the earth, but I do not release it from me. There is not flow, it has gone stagnant. This goes against nature. This is the sickness inside me. A buildup of carbon monoxide, dirt, mud, sand.
What my heart wants is to release it all into the air, and let it dissipate. It is my greatest fear, and my strongest desire, in this moment.