So cold and distant, yet burning with a passion of a blistering fire.
It brings me tears, not of tenderness, not for its wild and voracious appetite.
But because of the emptiness that I feel when I speak not its language.
Too long have I shut my creativity out, refusing to sculpt my abilities, and instead looking at my creativity as a waste of time and energy.
I have seen much time come and gone since I last let my soul scream across an empty canvas waiting to be woken up.
I must create. I must live art.
My poor soul cries out for its life-blood. Its cracked and jagged being swoons to be heard, to be seen, to be felt.
Art is the language of my soul.
I donβt know what I would do if I could not create, to draw, to paint, to sculpt, to write.
My hands and fingers are the outlets of my creativity; they allow me to put into shapes and images what my soul is trying to get me to understand.
Without art I am heart broken, as if my soul has been plucked out of me and a clump of nothingness put in its place.
Why then, do I push myself away from allowing my soul to sing? Why do I become angry and limit my ability as a form of self-punishment? To what purpose does this actually help?
Without my art and creativity have I become a better person? No, I have not. I have suffered. My soul has suffered.
I can no longer devalue my creativity as a mere waste of time.
It is where my love sings, where my soul cries out.
Art is the language of my soul. I pray I donβt forget this again.