Sometimes I worry I don’t feed my starving artist nearly as much as I should. In fact, most of the time I feel like I neglect to free her from my own constraints, that I restrict her from expression. Each day I set aside only a small portion for her, and she devours the emotions I lay out as if it is the only strength she will ever receive.
What’s worse is that the emotions I provide her aren’t formed from my own words most of the time. I feed myself through music first and foremost, and leave the scraps of the thoughtful emotions for her to finish off. But the truth is, I need music to help me formulate my own thoughts. I need someone else to straighten out my own perspective before I can even write the words down. I just don’t do it as often as I should. It’s like I’ve become so busy, I hardly know how to separate the minutes of each day to help myself help her.
Life is busy. It is crazy, and disastrous, and, quite frankly, it is an incredible mess most of the time. I’ve become a numb and transparent figure constantly scrolling through the false reality portrayed through media. Time in my life has become that picture frame that hangs in the corner of the room: you know it’s there but you hardly even acknowledge it for its beauty anymore. Which is why I really want to close the media and open the possibilities. I want to take that old picture frame out of the corner, clear off the dust, and hang it somewhere I will never stop looking at it, never forget it.