a journey to self
It almost sounds impossible to feel misunderstood in a world inhabiting 7.6 billion people.
And yet, I promise you, it is not.
Much of my life has been spent searching for different forms of self expression. I quite literally set out every day with the intent of painting the world with myself; art and decaying flowers decorate my room and other personal spaces, I splash canvases with the brightest colors and also dull and gruesome ones, showcasing every shade of myself. And my words reflect me in my most raw and real form, sometimes joyous and in awe of this world around me and sometimes in pain, crippled on the ground I once sprung from.
Sometimes my art reflects everything human: simplicity and intimacy and balance. Sometimes it is the perfect example of why teenagers are criticized for opening their mouths when it comes to real world issues; my words can be a reflection of mood swings and outbursts and lingering childhood feelings that aren’t ready to let go of me yet. But it’s always real and true, and vulnerable in ways that nobody but me can ever really understand. And it’s art all the same.
As artists we’re quite talented at belittling our creations as if they’ll never compare to the work of those more “qualified” than us. This constant comparison between our work and that of someone who spent years furthering their education is killing what is left of our creativity, killing what’s left of what makes artists, artists. I will never belittle the work put into earning titles and degrees because frankly, I have no idea what my next steps are. At seventeen I’m staring college decisions and tuition and a new chapter all right in the face, and I am still exploring my options, the adventures available to me after I complete my last year of schooling. All I know is that I want to make this world my own in a way that hasn’t been seen before. I want to paint the mundane in bright colors and write poetry about all the cities I’ve only ever dreamed of. My heart longs to be fulfilled with adventures and murals and my lungs crave the air of cities far away from southwestern Pennsylvania. And I have one last year before I can break free and explore this whole wide world around me and yet the constraints are holding me tighter than ever.
Because this world has a way of slapping us in the face. A way of making every dream sound completely unrealistic and painful. I shy away from my words at times out of fear of falling even harder for them; whatever will I do if I can’t stand the pain of putting them away one day in exchange for a job that pays the bills? What if I don’t make it big, what if the world isn’t as in love with my metaphors as I am, what if it breaks them and refuses to give them a home?
With that, I have to confess that I have no idea what to do when you figure out you’re one of those artsy people. So I leave you with the reminder that you and your art are never alone on this journey to self, and the promise that I’ll get back to you when I figure it all out. And if you find the answer before me, I expect you to do the same.