My Inner Artist

Constantly letting out my emotions through the squirrel hair in my paint brush. Constantly using it for my intentions and others, but accidentally. My paintbrush is like my therapist. I tell it my secrets, I tell it my crushes, I tell it my deep thoughts. My canvas - a never ending vortex, that sucks in anything that touches it, and keeps it forever. No matter how many times you touch a canvas in different ways, with a paintbrush, with a hand, with a sponge, it gets sucked into the vortex and stays there forever, even if you try to erase it. My hands is like a door for my soul. My soul shrinks from my body and releases into my canvas. In fact, its not even a door, its a hallway. Its always open, but there is only one way to go. Wherever you put your hand, is wherever your soul releases into. In fact, your eyes, your ears, your feet, anything that connects your inner passion to the outer world, is an opening for your soul. But as for an artist, my hand is my companion, along with the other tools I behold it with.

Hiding in my room, far away from the deadly aura behind my door, I start to play with my dollhouse. I was feeling a bit lackadaisical for art, so I decided to make my own play with my dolls. I'm not sure what happened that day, but at the end of the day my dollhouse's walls were falling off, the roof was bending in, and the dolls and furniture were scattered on the carpet, along with my heart and soul. I was shattered. I was torn, I was broken from the core, crying with no emotion. Steadily, I got to my feet, and I hit the top floor of the dollhouse as hard as possible. My mother came in again, and finished it off for me. The cat and my sister sat in her room, quietly. I felt betrayed, I felt hatred. I felt unloved, and confused. I was enjoying myself, and yet its silly how one person can ruin your happiness. Yet I was never able to avenge it, never able to tell truths apart. So I never did.

I held my shirt, and cradled myself on the floor. I chewed my shirt collars, and I prayed. I didn't know how to pray, I didn't know much about God, but I prayed anyways because that's all I have left. That's all my dignity left me. Is to pray to one I didn't even know of? Did that sound pathetic, did it? Its pathetic enough I couldn't even comprehend love at the time. I'm a foolish human being, I'm foolish and I'm a disgrace. I convinced myself, to finish myself off. But how? I lay flat on my floor. The soft carpet tickled my earlobes. I look around my room, clean. My asthma and allergies never really had affect in my room, even with cats, did it? Strangely I never remember cleaning my room.

My mother, she cleans everything in the house doesn't she? She tucks me in everyday, and kisses me goodnight. Is this it? Do I want to die, I'm so young, what about my mother? I glanced at my wall, with paintings and drawings that I never did. The cherry blossoms decorated my wall with the pink stripes that blinded me. I never wanted a pink room, but as much as I complained about it it grew on me, but I still complained. Do I want to end, with unfinished business? My mother will probably feel guilt about the wrong things she's done, even after her hard work. The bruises on my arm say nothing, I still love her. Though is this cycle going to be never ending? I'll go insane, if I'm not already.

I grabbed a pencil, that was thrown on my floor after used as a cane for one of my old dolls. I picked up a piece of paper, and drew a girl, sad and alone on her floor. I didn't stop, I never stop drawing. I wouldn't get a snack, I wouldn't reply to someone, I wouldn't do my homework, I wouldn't go to the restroom, I wouldn't take a shower until I was finished. If I stopped, what will happen next? I didn't want to end this feeling of freedom, I didn't want to stop, because for the first time, I understand how to express feelings. This, is the first time, I can be myself, I can breathe without thinking.

Breathe without thinking, is like being blessed with sleep while your awake. Your mind goes wild while you sleep, you dream weird dreams and you have nightmares. Its like reality, but in your version. I have nightmares, and I have dreams in real life. I laugh, and I yell, I scream and I cry, I hug and I play. I didn't care about anything, because anything didn't care about me at this moment. It was nothingness, it was stillness and silence that filled my mind. My mind was relaxed and I wanted it to stay that way forever. But it never did.

Even after things got better, and I still have my ups and downs, I need my pencil, my paintbrush just to stay sane, to stay me. I might not be alive, I might not be who I am. I wouldn't be recognizable, and I would be depressed more then I am. After a few years I still pray to this day for things to get better and I still struggle to stay connected with my inner being, but I'll do whatever it takes. People ask me to do things for them, and its the most wonderful feeling in the world to know you can make someone else happy by your happiness. I hope, that I can live in peace forever one day, and that the paint that covers my hands will stain until the day I die.
ixchelll ixchelll
Dec 6, 2012