At the end of the day, I often crave art. I hunger
for it with a sort of dramatic flair.
It seems I finally get to take my first breath in
24 hours when I’m immersed in a painting, a dance, a
song, a book. Creation is where my passion lies,
either my own or something showered forth from someone
else’s pleasure (or pain).
I need soft moments after the boisterous, sometimes
blistering din that a week of work and school never fails
to deliver. Sensitivity so often leads to soul
searching — but more often than not, that search
merely ends in a sea of insecurities. It’s easy to get
lost, and art recaptures at least a small sense of
groundedness.
Interacting with others is captivating and
exhilarating, yet it can be a harsh and dismal
struggle to find your own place. A few clashing
arguments this week still ring like cymbals in my
ears, words that threw me from comfort and wracked my
self-esteem. But I suppose it can be refreshing to
empty your pockets and turn things upside down once in
a while, to be forced to find your place all over
again.
Everyone has a time when they need someone to just
tell them, in not so many words, that they’re still
here — existing — and that they still belong. For me,
it’s today.
The buzz of wires and neon light are pouring from
my computer, work is calling, and I’m thirsting for a
quiet moment.