I was reading through old journal entries, or online I have them filed under “random thoughts”, and I came across this rather poetic bit I wrote last year.
November 20th, 2017:
“I don’t aim to inspire, I aim to heal. My trajectory non-linear and my goals unclear. I want to wake up smiling, no more tears, no more pain. I think the ties that bind me are the ones I need to severe, to regain my aim. This whole thing, it can’t all be a losing game.
With good intentions and an authentic altruistic vision, I turn to art. When nothing in this world makes sense, when I overthink every last detail of a conversation that struck me down, when my eyes are foggy and my limbs heavy, art is my saviour. I tend to reject the luxury of its healing nature at times. I take it for granted and I pay no attention to my practice for days on end. I always regret this and I feel guilty for the way it trickles down into all aspects of my life.
With the purest intentions, I wake up looking to perform the best version of myself, perform it to the point where it becomes reality.
Pick up the brush.”
I think I needed to read those words today. I forgot I wrote them and was somehow guided back to them. It’s so easy to forget.
But at the same time, when I head to my desk to create or stand at my computer to write, nothing comes out. It’s all gibberish.
My art feels uninspired.
My writing feels uninspired.
My heart feels uninspired.
Yet, this inherent desire to create somehow pushes on, digging desperately, trying to unearth new inspiration.
It has to find us working.
I need to start listening to my random ramblings.