Awake.
I’ve awakened from my depressed slumber, like a sloth I slowly, painfully, crawled up, up and out. Up past the trees and into the air so fresh and crisp it slaps the stale air out of my lungs, and as I gasp for a new breath, I’m met with a rush of coolness down my throat, awakening my organs, my skin, my senses.
I’m alive, and aware of where and what I am, soft grey, dank caverns are now replaced by brilliant blue and light, blinding me with its possibilities as I hold it out in front of me ready to consume.
Art has this raw power, to disarm and disable, to leave but a quivering mess in a depth so deep you may never crawl back out of it, it also has all of the energy and vigour of some of the most powerful elements on our earth. To be creative is to know there is this fine line you can easily fall into or grasp with all your strength. Art can make you hate it, make you fall in love with it, disarm you, torment you. Art can become you, or kill you.
I have managed to crawl back out of what feels like an eternity of drought, I have seen a shimmer in the air around me, a slight shift in the plates below my feet — I’ve once again been blessed by the goddess of creative force and I intend to run with it for as long as I’m allowed until I’m pulled back under. Painting, like breathing; an itch that haunts my naked flesh, is what I can do, what I will do, and I will kill myself over and over again for its pleasure.
