Waves of insecurity, threaten to drown me.
My sense of confidence, held in my deepest core plunges downwards.
Terror engulfs me; I seek the person I once was, and am meant to be.
Tethered in at every angle, I begin to shrink.
I seek a response, from the skies above me, but hear no reply.
Lately, I’m feeling more comfortable writing, then I’ve been in the past as a painter. I miss my visual forays into foreign worlds.
My current focus on the written word feels productive to me, but lacks something fundamental. At least when I use it as my sole purpose of expression.
I did the drawing above, rather quickly, without much attachment to the outcome of its appearance. It made me remember, how important color is to me. It reminded me of the feeling of my brushes, or brush-pens, against the initially blank backdrop of white paper.
Just creating this small piece, made me happy in a way that writing isn’t capable of.
I’ve been ill, I haven’t sold any paintings, or prints, and something in me is doubtful of my talent as an artist.
It’s interesting how, when we stop doing something that is dear to us, it can become more and more challenging to return to it. Fear and uncertainty give rise to intense doubt.
As often is the case, I am realizing that my distress at beginning a new painting, is preventing me from doing what I love; what I must do.
Does this ever happen to any of you writers, and creatives out there? How do you deal with it? I would love to hear your stories.