its not that i wanted to stop. it just happened. i tried to go back to it many times. opening this page and browsing elsewhere. reading everybody else’s writings. and never writing my own.
i try to be a better blogger. i never used to care about who read what about my life. it is one form of art, is it not? and art is about the artist. right? yet i find myself censoring my words, as though there was something to hide. or something not to share.
believe me when i say, i have nothing to hide. there is too much to share, maybe. i cannot get around to choosing what i want to share, maybe.
i have got so many things running through my mind. past and present. my histories come back and forth, and sometimes i just don’t know what to do about it. they come in dreams, in music, in words. in places. i have dreams of my childhood, of places i have been, people i have fucked. i have dreams of the present. of the future. i have dreams of my partner, of our future. of people i know, of people i want to know. i want to be.
i smoke cigarettes, pretending to be great writers. i smoke a joint, hoping to have the mind of a great painter. living as though my actions will make me something more than what i am already. i sit around reading books about meditation, queer studies, photography, hoping to gain any form of inspiration i can get. in any way possible.
but of course. it isn’t the way this works. you see, i sit around dreaming, hoping, thinking that someday, yes someday, i can be one of the greats that we look up to and idolize. but of course. it isn’t the way this works. and yet, i am sitting here, writing about it. pretending to be a great writer.
i go through phases. one day i am a painter, the next i am a writer. most days though, i am a photographer. who has not photographed in close to a year now.
the one thing i am always, is an artist in search of a medium to call my own.