I never really understood what being an artist meant. You see, I always had an intensity about me interpreted differently by different people. Some said I was OCD. Some said I cared. Art was looked at as something acquired, like the appreciation for beer, fine wine or foi gras. Interestingly enough, I set out to write a piece on the fluctuations of my mood regarding myself wanting to date seriously or be more of a free bird.
Which proves my point.
Creativity, being artistically inclined, is something one is born with. It’s borne of a frenetic impatience with the slow, methodic, plodding slightly boring – if melodramatic – pace of the doldrums of everyday existence. It isn’t a skill that can be acquired. Sure, anyone can learn to be a decent actor, painter, chef.
But an artist? That comes along with a responsibility. To oneself. To fulfill that incessant, pounding, hollow, painful, yet terrifiyingly thrilling sense of adventure. Need for adventure, for the expression which comes so spontaneously to those of us privileged enough to call ourselves artists.
It’s a natural, instinctual ability and need for expression. That expression finds its way out through various mediums. Some through painting, others through music and yet others through acting. Actors identify as “troubled souls” simply because we’re more in touch with the soul. We’re all troubled.
As usual, this piece wasn’t written, rather it splurged out while riding the NYC subway. Which again, goes to further my point.
Bringing myself back to my original thoughts I intended I write about. Girls. After dating one, I swear to not be back in a relationship. I say it’s impossible to be happy in one for someone like myself. Yet at times I’ll realize that’s untrue.