it seems as the faster time moves for me, the less I write. I used to write to fill the time- to fill the silent void- or to silence the demons in my head. And now..... writing would be because I actually want to write..
And I do want to write. And I do want to read my books. And I do want to paint and draw and watercolor and sew plushies and watch movies.
Let me tell you a story..
It's about a little girl who grew up sheltered from the world... All she knew was what she grew up with. She never went to public school. She never really had "normal" friends and relationships. All she had were her books- her movies- her sister- her imagination- her sadness- her self. She had been told that the world was evil and not safe and corrupting and that you "had to be careful." And yet, with all that- she always looked at other people out and about and some of them seemed happy- and she wanted that for herself- she felt strange and weird- she felt like an outsider- and she would see other children- and then teenagers as she got older- hanging out together- laughing together- experiencing life together- and she was still alone- laughing alone- crying alone.....
Reflecting on herself- she realized she spent all her time with books and movies- inanimate objects- they couldn't laugh and cry with her- they couldn't see her- interact with her- they were just .....things... And she became angry and frustrated.. and she threw all them aside because she felt they were keeping her from living her life.
So, she went out in search of this "life" she felt she wasn't living.. and she tried to be like everyone else- do what other people did... at first it was exciting and new, but the more she tried to be happy like everyone else- the sadder and even more alone she felt- because the more she realized she was trying to be something she wasn't. The whole time she had been trying to be someone else- rather than herself...
It took a lot of heartbreak... and a lot of heartache to find herself- to find honesty- and like herself.... to be happy with who she was....
I'd like to tell you the story has a happy ending... but that's the funny thing about real life.... It doesn't end until we die... and until we die... it's never just a "happy ending." There will be hardship and struggles and pain... but there will also be love and beauty and happiness.
The story isn't over yet. The girl grew into a woman and is still living her life- finding herself- creating herself- creating art- because she is art- and life is an art.
It's funny to me how all she wanted to do was have a "real life." And the whole time she had no idea that she had been living her real life the whole time- SHE was the only one who couldn't see it for the longest time.
I never would wish heartache on anyone- I only wish good things for you all my dears... But I know life has a way of handing out heartache no matter what. But I wish you to hold on. I have weathered enough storms to know they don't last forever- storms have an end. because time never stops moving forward. I know it's not easy to hold on. I know it isn't, but if we didn't keep trying- we will never know if it will get better. And it will- it may take a while- but that's life- that's art.
goodnight my loves.
create some art. make something beautiful .
Read Riding Hood