This morning, I just read about Leonora Carrington, a surrealist painter, scluptor and poet. She spent her long life creating arts. suddenly asked myself "am i really happy?"
What am I doing... Do I lack inspiration? Why am I rushing to create an illustration. What am I trying to prove? I guess its time to overhaul my artworks.
Piece by piece, I slip inside myself. Who was I before... Time after time, I feel farther and farther from my real self. There's a lot of pressure for being a young adult and yet I always end up questioning who am I, what I really want to be. I actually spend most of my time alone because I want silence so I could listen to myself.
But for the meantime, all the things I do streams back to my past when I was a teen. Alone, reading about painting, listening to grunge music, drawing myself in notebooks and releasing all hang ups through writing.
There's something I have forgotten about me... and I'm thoroughly retrieving them.
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