it's a curious thing.
to be an artist, you have to embrace mistakes.
you have to let your pain flow like blood in a safer way than trembling razorblades from wrist to elbow, making an outlet that won't take your life but just might safe it in the end.
your joy like fireworks exploding from your skin and fingertips and hair and eyes and lips and soul like so much jubilant light.
your love stream from your eyes like a river, tears that aren't unbidden but that so many just won't understand to be anything but pain rippling out and out. it's not, though. it's perfect love.
that's what it is to be an artist.
after all, how can we know passion if we have never experienced it ourselves? how can we write, sing, or leap with emotions that are unfamiliar territory?
we have to embrace our imperfections.
every last beautiful one.
i'm preparing for a month of being laid bare. letting my soul pour into my novel, exposing my heart for this whole world to taste and touch and run their fingers over.
maybe it'll do some good.
a month of imperfections. a month of breathing art in like air.
of being an artist
following my calling of art and passion and depth and soul.
living here in imperfect art.
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes
art is knowing which ones to keep