...'i'm an alien'
laymans terms, i'm an artist.
i'm a writer.
i've known i was different since i was a little girl, rocking bubbles and clips. my mind has always operated on a different level than those around me. not saying better, just different, the way i would use and view words, the visuals that words would bring to me, and the way i felt when absent from my one true love. people told me i wasn't normal.
as i got older, and up until recently it hit me, and i understood. people who are in love with their art, who live breathe, and die entangled in their art function in a seperate reality. they don't live like everyone else does, often called 'crazy', some become hermits, some take drugs to numb the pain of their brilliance, some go as far as to take their own life. masterpieces aren't created while 'sittin up in their room', masterpieces are created through glazed eyes, staring blankly out of a window, counting the black stars in their white sky. pictures are painted staring past what the eyes see and dredging up the soul. music is created from places some people may never reach. artists live inside their head, they function off of what makes sense to them, and honestly this reality sucks! when i am expierencing a writer's block i am unable to function, i can't breathe this air, it smells stale to me, i yearn to be in my seperate reality. that's where i feel at home, that's where my world is MY world, and that's where everything makes sense. give me a white sky with black lines woven in between the clouds, give me a hot pink pen and set me free.
i'm not saying i'm brilliant, but i can relate to the love of none other but my art, i'm also saying.....set me free. sometimes i wish this reality would just let go of me. i've been seduced by the death of life...the art of words, and i don't want to come back.