The art in me has died. My creativity is shriveled and lacking. I am a water-well ran dry that earned its liquid title in ages past.
“Artist,” they say.
“Artist?” I ask, green eyes staring back at me inquisitively. How long have I looked to the past, craned my neck in the wrong direction? It has been too long since I have played at creator. Nevermind the quality (or lack thereof) of my past work-the good is that I did work! I made. I sculpted. I brought things in to existence. I was an artist, though a youthful and inexperienced one. Now it feels as though I ride on the coattails of my past. I claim the title, “artist”, but have I earned it today? This week? This year?
It is not fair of me to look back anymore. Artists do not do that. Artists plot and meditate on what is not, what might become. That which has potential. Life is mine to live regardless of whether or not I make things. I see things differently, and that is all that I really want. I may or may not be inspired again. My forward motion may pull me farther away from the painter, paster, color-worker that I was. So be it! Inspiration is gone from me here. Either I have drawn all there is from the beauty that is here or being here has drawn all the powers of creativity out of me. Empty I have not always been. I shall chase after abundant life, holding with tight fists to the belief that it will restore bracing, full creativity to me. Artistry, be mine. New lovely, flow out of my hands, my heart. Truth embellished, gush from my soul via tangible medium. Return to me, sweet outlets for overflowing emotions.