In that moment, I only not exist but for once, I feel alive…
I remember the days where I used to write journal entries, poems, essays, a novel out of the blue or craft anything. Not judging my own ideas and actually doing them. Not in a regular basis but once it pops up in my head, I’ll do it. I’ll make time for it, regardless. How I missed those moments where no matter how anxious or sad I am, I will still make an effort to dress up in my country clothes to go for a quick escape bringing my art materials with me, my beloved books and other essentials just to apppreciate the nature and sit with my own thoughts. Alone with only the chirping of the birds as well as the wind can be heard. Where I can be myself in the quiet, feeling connected to my inner self. Ignoring the noises around me.
In that moment, I only not exist but for once, I feel alive…
Fast forward, I got way too caught up dealing with the changes & predicaments in life.
I became way too worried about how other people perceive me as well as my art.
Doubt robbed me off of my happiness. The paralyzing fear of judgment and failure took my confidence away. Creating became exhausting, feeling more like of a measurement of my worth.
“Am I enough?” was my constant question behind every painting or artwork that I created. Every piece may it be a poem or centiment felt like an invition for a silent cry asking validation instead of plainly expressing myself. Ideas stopped flowing as loneliness crept in.
I felt worthless.
I drifted away from the fact that I was once so secure in my own company. That I am a naturally creative person who thrives with or without anyone. That arts, writing, literature and music makes me who I am.
Get anne’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
That I am a weirdo ...
I mean not in a psychophatic kind of weird but some type of peculiar thinking kid. Odds are, only few will understand the peculiarity that lies within the deepest of my mind and soul.
Or how my imagination works.
That my brain is wired differently.
That I am special.
Not even how it is like to live in my own world.
I have forgotten the reason why God created according to his own purpose.
To create something wonderful.
Now, I just want to be kinder with myself again while creating.
“My art does not define my worth,” I remind myself.
