I am…

I am an artist.

I write these words and look at them with judgment and expectation. Where, then, are my paintings? The poems I swore I would submit to literary journals? When was the last time I even thought of auditioning for a play?

It is much easier to say:  “I was an artist when I was younger” or “I am artistic and creative.”

It feels easier to undermine, to claim the desire without the title, or as a nostalgic reminder.

Expectation aside, being an artist isn’t always about the money one earns as a result of creation; it’s about the need to create. It’s about living and breathing art, about feeding the soul.

I want to throw the past tense away, because art still feeds me. Because sometimes art is what keeps me from the darkest spaces in depressed moments. Because my inner child rejoices at the chance to hold a paintbrush again, and play.

Art was, is, and will be a part of my life.

 

 

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