[part 1: the conscious] [part 2: the infinity]
The past few days have been odd for me, though certainly a growing experience. I have been confronted (emotionally if not physically) with seemingly everything in my life that is, or ever was, important to me. From love, to artistic evolution, to religion. I feel I've spoken (whined) enough about the first, so I'll speak of the remaining two in this and the next entry.

I'm unsure what it is lately, but I've had a strong urge to create. After all, that is why I became involved in art to begin with. I wanted to spawn something no one has seen before. To capture thought, feeling, and life in dabs of paint and in folds of clay. I wanted it to be that, without me, the world would be void of something. That life would be more simplistic and less diverse. To show that I am not part of some massive conscious, a collective thought. That I am not the mindless mob. I am not. I am myself and my thoughts. I am originality.

My goal has always been the same. Create something that lives and breathes. Something not confined to the stillness of paper. I want motion. I want emotion, through the ways of expression and sound. Through the years I've had the same scenes in my mind. The same ideas, though ever changing and evolving. All the ideas in my head are pounding inside, trying to escape. I need only provide a means for them to do so.

Back in high school, I was good at classic art. Drawing and the like, though all in the realistic sense, which is not what I desire, nor what I am. If I want realism as it is seen in the world, I'll look at a picture. But at least I had skills of a kind. But events beyond my control (at least, beyond my control after I begun them - forgive me) left me in a state of depression, which led to uninspiration. All I wanted to do was sit in my room and rot away. And rot I did. I didn't touch anything in the realm of art for four years, all the while my skills we becoming battered and broken. It wasn't until recently that I truly "woke up". And now I painfully realize that artisn't all muscle memory. The only skills I have remaining at all are my graphic design abilities and even those have been stretched thin from what I might have once been able to accomplish. When I think of all I could be doing now, had those four years been less harsh and I less weak, I become frustrated. As I was once told by my viciously truthful mother, I "wasted four years of my life - four of the best years - for things I cannot change". And she was right. I did waste them and now they are lost forever. Even now, when I see how easily time slips away before you even notice it, I don't do enough to take advantage of the present. Often I still, at present, live in the past.

I am trying to change that.

devolve | evolve