I've noticed, whenever I'm in the middle of falling for a person I write less, play the piano less, paint less and sometimes-- I think if it's because love is the highest form of art.
or if all the art I do after love is only a naive way of recreating what I felt. A proof of longing, gratitude, regrets.
But, you know, if exhausting all the pen and paper writing your stories will make me feel what you made me feel, if playing the piano in full volume would silence all these what ifs, if only painting would bring everything we had back to life -- I would still let go of the brush, I would rather have you.
But I can't, so here's another entry of my misery.
- F, 11:33PM 04/15/22
