Writing and Creating
I believe that I create what I call art because I want to deeply express what I feel in a moment. Sometimes, I think of ideas ahead of time and try to visualize what I want to create, but I rarely rely upon that when I am involved in my creation. Once my creation begins, it either penetrates so far that it sticks or hits a wall and bounces so far that I catch myself where I started. Legacy or fame is not something that I strive for when I create; I do not do what I do for an audience. Do I have them in mind? Certainly. Hardly do I aim to cater to them. How can I? I write and create because I feel something so strong that I cannot relay it in my usual life. I live or, more appropriately, present myself to the world as a piece of you. I know that what I say has been said before. I show images that have been created before. I don’t aim to be unique and really don’t concern myself with that. I am obsessed with emotion because it is the deepest feeling I have ever felt. Obviously, right? Feeling, it is so strong when you release your mind of judgment. To feel is to fly and surf the wind until it lets go. You can crash, relive the crest, or try again.
I want to share. Not because I want to spray myself but because I want to know that we can dive and come up for the same desperation no matter what the tide is. Thinking brought you to the tools, survival brought your hands to grasp them, emotion smiled at your shaky hands, spit on your cranked kill-just-missed, and cried for your emaciated offspring. Did you need the best tool or the firmest hand? Or did that knot in your stomach, that resolve to validate, that tug at your tears go amiss?
Feeling is not without thinking, right? Think this. Think of that person that you love most. Think of their death. Think of their funeral. Where are you? What are you doing? What are you thinking? Think all you want to.
Feel this. Feel that relationship that you have. Feel that love. Feel that death. Feel that loss. Feel where you are. What do you feel? What are you doing?
Words. Let me tell you this. No word will describe the pain that is endured in such a circumstance. No word. Try and grasp that one; that one in the corner. That word that no one searched for; it may have had a place where it was, but you took it. You took it away, used it for your own purpose as if it were some sort of new sexual ecstasy. Scream it and yell it; put it in its new place. Put it somewhere where I have to search for it. Make me find this new description of the love I lost and riddle it. Climb as I hang on… every word. But… promise me this. Promise me that you won’t make me do it again. Promise me that I don’t need a puzzle stratified by your light hands.