Wednesday, April 17, 2013


I just spent about twenty minutes going through my old paintings, and all I could think was, I need to start painting again.

I missed mixing colors together. I missed brushes in my hand. I missed the smell of paint, being alone in front of the canvas with nothing but me and my music. I missed the color, the way it represented me, the way it defined me. I missed looking at shapes and finding meaning, seeing myself in there, somewhere.

I missed being able to say I am an artist and not feeling guilty about it. I missed Saturday mornings trying to hunt down Prussian blue because, I am once again out, and only Prussian blue and Chinese red would completely explain how I feel, and my sentiments.

I missed paint on my naked body when I was alone, and truly inside of my creation. So much time spent creating.

Time to find my way back. It had been over two-and-a-half years since I picked up a brush. Too long. Looking at colors and swirls was stirring memories. Like all my hobbies, I'd stopped. Dropped them to throw myself into work to fill the aching hole that was being so long without my love. And in losing that I had lost myself, somehow.

I needed to find my way back.

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