"I am dim and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not."
-Virginia Woolf, The Waves

On Art

Sometimes I spend too much time thinking. I've been awake for two hours just lying in bed, thinking.

I realized it's been a very, very long time since I've created some kind of art. I use the word art here to mean a very specific thing because I've very rarely considered myself an artist. I know some people would probably be surprised to hear that but it's true. I have minimal skills in drawing, painting, writing, creating. I think true artists make themselves vulnerable by unveiling their deepest thoughts, hopes, desires, pains, joys, FEELINGS in their work. And I think that's why I don't consider myself an artist. Yes, I can occasionally make things that look pretty but what story does that tell? I think true artists are storytellers in their respective medium.* And this is where I have always come up short. I do not make art because I am scared to tell my story. I am afraid of making myself vulnerable. I am trying to let go of that fear. I am trying to find that girl who saw beauty or pieces of beauty in everything around her.

There was a period in high school where I considered an artist. My work wasn't always pretty but it always told a story, my story. I would make collages and paintings and sketches. I wrote love poems using only words from spam emails. I made intricate drawings on index cards that I would give to friends and drew pictures on biology tests that my teacher always looked forward to. I rewrote scripts and had leading roles in plays and musicals. I won state awards for writing. And I told my story over and over again in different ways. Because I wanted people to know me. Because I thought I was worth knowing.

I'm trying to find that girl again. I know she and I are the same so she's somewhere inside. Sometimes I can hear her beating in the walls of my heart, a longing to get out, a very real ache in my chest. I just need to get her flowing through my veins again.

*(I recognize this personal definition of "artist" will not resonate with everyone, though I think most people would agree to some extent.)

I'm awake and the clock reads 1:23.

1, 2, 3.

I am tired.

In college, I stopped keeping a regular journal because I realized I never wanted anyone to read the thoughts I had. Even now I think of burning old journals I've kept. The words frightened me then. And the thoughts overwhelm me now.

Writing had always been therapeutic for me in a way nothing else has. But I've had my privacy invaded a few times in the past and my safe haven between the pages instead became a traitor.

If I write, it is brief and superficial. I spend much of my writing time just contemplating what I am trying to express and still, everything I write is not what I meant to say.

It is so frustrating.

I just wrote about how I cannot write. And it is, again, not at all what I wanted to say.

To sum up what I wanted to write about: I am still looking for a hole my misshapen peg will fit in and I'm not very hopeful.

A Brief Interruption

When you're sad you need to hear your sorrow structured into sound.
-Susanna Kaysen, Girl, Interrupted

"Perhaps I am no one
True, I have a body
and I cannot escape from it.
I would like to fly out of my head,
but that is out of the question. "
- Anne Sexton