the so-called artist in me


Are we to paint what’s on the face, what’s inside the face, or what’s behind it? — Pablo Picasso

i write my emotions with words. sometimes, on those very rare times, i paint them with colors. admittedly, i’m not very good with painting and more often than not i end up creating nothing but an artistic mess. but it doesn’t matter. all that matters is that during those moments, i let go of myself. my inhibitions. my life’s dramas. even if it’s just for a moment. those few precious moments maintained my sanity — something i’m not quite willing to let go just yet. ironically, not too long ago, i wrote:

sometimes, i envy those “crazy” people on the streets. i envy the fact that reality is something they’re not aware of. and the closest thing to reality they have in their midst is the pile of worthless garbage they carry around like their treasure. i envy that it doesn’t matter what people think of them. it doesn’t matter what clothes they wear or how they look. it doesn’t matter that their hair’s all clumped up with dirt, dust, and grease. i envy that they can sit comfortably on the sidewalk and watch people pass them by, even look those people in the eye as if it’s them who owes an explanation as to why they exist. i envy that they do not have to subject themselves to the raw human emotions like love, fear, anger, confusion, and hate. sure, they may feel them at one point or another but by then, the internal voices start pouring in and once again, they’re alone in their deserted world.

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