Dreams.
I want to write one of the greatest stories in our world.
Becoming an artist, I set up boundaries for myself; stick to painting, don’t stray from the canvas, keep up with just portraiture. To me at some point I found myself tangled up in a web of lies that I created for myself.
Don’t.
Can’t.
Shouldn’t.
Won’t.
You cannot cross paths, mix wires, derail. Stick to the narrow path set out in-front of you, and if it doesn’t work then the concrete jungle will welcome you in; the wide endless gape of its open arms mourning the loss of your mind and time, scheming away to prove that the wheel is the only one true way.
What if, what if you want more.
What if painting, for example, does not quite reach the outer skies of my mind, my thirst not quite quenched by just one creative outlet, but my soul dreaming for itself of new worlds, strings to add to the creative bow.
Are we destined to only ever have two options; a niche business, or entrapment?
Exploring my dreams, I’ve noticed how attached I am to story. Painting portraits, people, faces, enables me to dream up a story even if I have no intention of letting it travel from my mouth to another’s ear. I see behind eyes, behind façad, and dive deep into the gravelly pit of burning emotion. So if story is my main drive, can I not in turn become a story maker myself?
Often I’ve been bewitched by cinema, captured by books and as a result I suffer at the hands of others. A pleasurable suffering, where I’m endlessly hungry, a pleasure where even after reaching the peak of climax, I could do it again over and over. Helplessly losing myself at the hands of others. Its torture. But I couldn’t have it any other way.
Its unbearable.
Could I ever emulate that feeling? To muster that kind of power to disarm even the hardest of beings.
As much as I love painting, and its something I can do, writing is a new world, a portal to future oppurtunities — could I write, like they write?
