I haven’t written much lately. Much of my story isn’t just mine to be told. So instead? Silence. Easier on everyone. I have struggled with what to write. Everything seemed too…fluffy.
What I CAN write about is what I have discovered about myself. Through years of struggling with insecurities. Wrestling with insignificance. Battling depression. I have learned more about being me. Myself. Living with who I am is not easy, but I am hoping for gentle acceptance even as I pen the words. Acceptance of me for me. Finding the best within myself. Learning to celebrate it. So, lest you think I’m writing this for you…don’t be disillusioned!
I am an artist. First and foremost.
I am an artist. First and foremost. Many say those words, and for them they are true. But being an artist and doing art is very different. In fact. I think you can be an artist without actually doing something within what others may think of as “the field of art”. BEING an artist is often more of a personality trait. My personality traits. And sometimes that can make me feel tormented. Emotional. Heavy. Wild of heart. Vibrant on some days. Melancholy on others. Seeing color in everything. And creative possibility in every corner. Feeling. Oh, so much feeling. And most importantly? Vastly misunderstood. This is not a complaint or a cry to be heard. It’s my reality. And if you are an artist, you understand. But sometimes. Often. It’s lonely.