I have to make art.
Art is not a choice.
If I don’t make art, my soul becomes enslaved in a barbed wire cage that scratches and tears my heart to pieces. Art is the color of these shredded pieces scattered on the page.
If I don’t make art I become a hangry lion ready to pounce on any living thing that comes my way- ready to tear it down. Art is the fuel feeding that hunger, without which I whither away into a person I don’t want anyone to meet.
Without art I become a scared mouse, afraid of that lion inside me, cowering in a dark hole underground, terrified to come out. Art is the light that shines into that mouse hole and soothes my fear into courage.
Art is the sound of my broken heart shattering into a million pieces.
Art is the texture of spilled tears.
Art is my friend.
Art is the real me.
And I am terrified to let anyone see my real art. To see my real me.
I’m terrified of my own emotions. My own desires. My own fears. My own ambitions. I am terrified of my self.
Art is the only thing that will free me from this fear that overwhelms me every time I try to make my art.
If you make art- maybe you know what I mean. Maybe you don’t have a choice either.
Art is what I have to to do to really live.