Making Art

I want to make art.

I have spent a large portion of my life aching to make art. Sadly, it’s a much larger portion than that I have actually spent making art. I yearn instead, look down at my hands and wish they were splattered with vibrant acrylic paint splotches, look at my clean trim nails and wish they were filthy and caked under with clay.

I write, and writing is art. The act of putting words out, in a specific order, grouped together in a way they haven’t been before, in a way that probably no one else in the universe could replicate, is art. It is art as much as piecing images together in your own way is art. But I don’t do that as often as I should, either. I mostly yearn about that, too.

Yearning, sadly, is not art. If it were, I’d be quite the accomplished artist.




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