I’m not much of a writer if I am being honest, I’m not the type of person that can sit down for hours on end, looking for different ways to describe sadness, pity, or happiness. I have trouble putting my thoughts down on a piece of paper. I have an even harder time incorporating my feelings into it. However, I like to paint. Making an image from a blank canvas. Allowing color, light, and form to express the visions I see in my dreams. Allowing every stroke of my brush to do the talking. Using my pencil as the mouth of my hands, engrossing myself in the subtle complexities of creating my own personal masterpiece, but I’m not much of a writer if I am being honest. 

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          I’m not much of a writer, but the time I spend creating, thinking, and ideating about what to paint next makes me calm. A blissful yet stressful feeling. A fleeting yet present sensation. Hours spent in reality yet minutes pass in my head. Almost as if time goes faster when I think about what I want to draw. I’m not much of a writer, but the description of each painting is like a stone mason chiseling their own body, or a tattoo artist inking their own skin, the image is etched into my brain. It is permanent, yet not at the same time. An image preserved in the back of my mind like the pictures drawn by the neanderthals on the walls of their caves.  

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          I’m not much of a writer, but I like to paint. Maybe you can think of it as writing in its own way. Maybe the image created is me writing my own story. Maybe the story has already been written, and I am just translating it into an image itself. Maybe there never was a story to begin with and the delusions of grandeur gaslight me into thinking that there is one present. Is it me speaking about the vulnerabilities of my past, is it me translating the insecurities about my future, or is it me and my ambivalence about the present. 

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I'm not much of a writer If I am being honest, but I like to paint.