Thoughts

Art

Sometimes, when I manage to sustain a thought, I contemplate the possibility that I, against all odds, was born for art. That my imagination, despite not being entirely unique, has its own charm to it, and that it brings to life, perhaps not something you haven’t seen, but something you can see yourself reflected on.

When my mind drifts through the endless possibilities, through the people that exist only in my head, through thousands of conversations that never happened. When the storm that rages ever present, ideas that never came to fruition and that push against my own barriers to surge through my lips or my hands. That’s when I wonder if, maybe, I have chosen the wrong path.

But who am I to suppose, without any proof of the contrary, that my addition to a world full of wonders would be received as something worthy enough to belong in such a pedestal? Isn’t it presumptuous of me to think myself a being born with the ability to create something groundbreaking? 

And yet I hesitate. Because my mind has never stopped creating, and my hands have often crafted copies of things that I’ve seen, that I’ve admired, and made it their own. Is it not enough to appreciate one’s efforts and leave it as something meaningless? Must I always create art with the idea that it should move multitudes? 

But I can’t stop. And that’s the core of the problem. Sometimes there are suggestions, whispered in the most inopportune times, when my concentration is at its limit and my will shakes, fragile and wavering against the unrelenting winds of inspiration. Others, there are moments, when the suggestions turn into screams, and my hand is forced to follow the delicate lines of an idea. And each time I bow under my own pressure. I cave and kneel before my need of expression. 

And in those moments, time feels  insignificant. 

What is the passage of it when under my very hands, the outline of a face, of a shape, can come to life and breathe for the first time? What is time compared to shapeless forms full of colour and movement? What is the endless stream of possibilities against the torrent of words that paint a picture you’ve never seen? When I can get into the minds of people and show whatever is in my head through words alone?

Isn’t this what art means?

An imprint, like a caress, left forever in your life, something you will never forget. 

I’ll always be driven by an unknown force to create. Art will always run through my veins, be it a tune, an image or a world that only words can describe. And perhaps, the knowledge that something I did touched someone in the most intimate way. Perhaps the knowledge that, from that point on, a part of me lives intertwined with the memories and emotions of somebody else. 

Perhaps that will be enough to quench my thirst