I am obsessed with art. With pretending to look, create, and interact with art. Some need to put down everything in timelessness, perhaps? Or just get it out of me. I think that's what it is, this mumble, jumbled whispers of voices in the back of my head-not true voices, just ideas. Could-be's and maybe's not fully formed anything. In fact, the formation from sense to actuality is painful, stressful, and wholly undesirable. yet I try, and begin, over and over.
I don't want to make anything, really. I don't want to feel as if it is necessary for me to attempt again and again to make something, anything. The pressure of creation, when others tell me that I am a creative person, but I just don't know. I don't really feel like an anything person, honestly. I suppose that I can do things, but I never have the desire to begin. I'm just pretending to be an artist, which really means that I shouldn't be one, because if I really were one than I wouldn't be having this constant argument with myself over whether I am or not. I would be doing things, writing, making things, creating.
Such a push to invent, to be spontaneous and NEW all of the time. Newness, the stench of plastic and chemicals, bright color soon to fade. So much pressure on everything.
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