Artist

These days the world was big and scary.
All separate parts of me fought to find their way out of my skin. Parts that wanted clarity and discovery, parts that wanted art and expression, parts that wanted comfort and love.
Driven by the thoughts of making something beautiful and moving, I longed for days of throwing pots, the unyielding clay finally smoothing under my palms, or the softs strokes of a brush, sticky in application to a large canvas. The words spilled out, wanting to make movies, music, write books. Touch people with my art in ways that all human beings could be understood. Or at least one other person. To have that moment, where everything someone expressed felt right, felt exactly how you felt, resonated within your being and screamed for more.
I was feeling a little lost.
I was in the world of big decisions and adulthood. Things felt like they were slipping away from me faster than I could grab at them. My world was collapsing. I knew I had the rest of my life to figure the world out, but why did I feel this sense of desperation, loss of time?
I felt like I knew so much more about myself, which made me feel like there was so much more to learn.