I stare at the harsh illuminated screen as my eyes move back and forth looking at other artists.
My body is cool from the ceiling fan and my hands move quickly across the keyboard in search of more artistic souls. The internet is my 2am companion. I don't seek hooch. I seek more art.
My head turns to stare at a work in progress and I begin to ponder how many people will get to see it once it's completed. Is my work too light? too immature? too insular for others to connect to?
Is my art not serious enough to make it to a higher level?
All these questions race all over my brain and I youtube "Clair de Lune" to calm myself down.
The cat is not worried like I am. His world is far more simple and exquisite. He lays on my red chair asleep dreaming of catnip I suppose. I turn back to the illuminated screen and I just stare like a moth to the flame. It sucks me in until the wee hours of the morning when my eyes and my body finally give in.
Wait...shit! It's time for work and I'm exhausted. I stretch my legs first, groan at the little time I have to get to work and move like a sloth to the bathroom. Clean face, contacts in, minimal makeup on and covered in a dress and flats.
On the drive there, I can't stop thinking about it. I think of my art, art in general, my life and how I came to choose this as my form of expression. I could have been an accountant like my mutha.
Nay. Art reminds me of more, it reminds me of the infinite layers we exist in. There is no end to my imagination and I want to explore it until my body gives in.
Day in and Day out. In the car riding to a destination or sitting outside in the hot sun. I can't stop thinking about it. I don't want to know the meaning of life. I just want to figure out mines.
During my brief ride on this mortal coil, I choose to explore. I choose to be a fucking artist.
It's 2:19am. Time for bed.
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