Call Me An Artist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
angsty sort of essay

Submitted: May 03, 2008

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Submitted: May 03, 2008

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Blank paper always makes me think.  It makes me think of all the things I could cover it with.  All of the different words, the different sentences, each with a different meaning. Maybe with a crude drawing of a strawberry in black pen.  Or maybe an explosion of color, made with my crayons, markers and paint.  Oh the possibilities.  It’s so hard for me to decide what to defile the glaring white paper with.  Maybe just some scribbles to show my frustration with my life.  Or some lazy circles to show my exhaustion.  I guess I could use words too.  Long words, short words, offensive words.  I could use fuck instead of scribbles. Capitalize each letter. I could replace the lazy circles with some simply structured sentences.  Or I could write a book.  A book telling you how I am feeling.  Long paragraphs telling you of my anguish.  The anguish only an artist feels.  They always say that any form of art is rooted in some sort of pain.  I feel the pain like an artist feels the pain.  I can feel it running through my veins, fueling everything I do, yet still holding me back.  But that’s where I fall short.  That’s where I am not an artist at all.  An artist can take this anguish and fill a paper with it.  An artist can take their pain and translate it into something beautiful.  Something so beautiful that the audience isn’t even aware of the artist’s pain; they instead only have eyes for the artist’s talent.  I unlike the artist cannot do this.  My pain simply stunts me.  I am not an artist.  I am simply a deeply anguished individual.  I can’t translate pain into something beautiful.  I instead choose to hide it.  I wish I could let the words flow and paint you a beautiful picture allowing us both to retreat from our pain.  I wish I could write you a poem or sing you a song that you could relate to, allowing us to both not feel so alone.  But instead I can only wish for these things; I will only babble to you and fill the blank page with words.  Meaningless words. So it would seem.  I could give you words that would paint you a picture, but it would not be a beautiful picture.  Just a dark and disturbing picture.  Nothing that would ever be hanging on a wall.  No this picture would be stashed in a basement,  hidden from sight.  I know this because I have painted you a picture.  I have told you of my anguish, you’ve seen the alarming picture.  And you stashed it away and forgot about it.  You’ll never ask me about it again.  It will only sit in the depths of your mind, slowly disappearing as you forget.  That’s why I’ve stopped painting the picture.  The picture only exists in my mind now; its final home.  Never to be hung and admired again.  Maybe I am an artist.  There is so much art that wasn’t appreciated until the artist had left this world.  Maybe you will admire my picture after I am gone.  Maybe you’ll remember the things I told you, the picture I painted you.  Maybe one day you’ll even admire it.  Maybe you’ll be able to look past the disturbance and see the beauty underneath.  Maybe one day you will call me an artist. 


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