artsy

You know the desire to make things pretty? Like when you take a picture, or simply have a camera in your hand: you want to take something beautiful, abstract, simplistic, whatever it may be. You see a leaf on the ground and you stop and pose around the leaf to find a gorgeous shot and angle to shoot the leaf. You play with the brightness setting to make sure that the shot looks meaningful.

Or, you pick up a pencil and start to think what happened today. You go through the little details and decide if you should have done things otherwise. You think about why someone did something; the reason, and consequences, the flashbacks, and everything seems to be pick up meaning. And then you try to jot them down. You document your life with details and scripted descriptions; you want your life to sound like a novel.

I don't usually draw all that much. I used to sketch a lot of stuff, simply because I like to. I enjoyed being able to picture the world the way I wanted it to be, even though my picture might just stink. But now I think of it, I never tried to draw my emotions. I suppose I knew that I wasn't good enough to do so so I never tried.

But what did I do instead? I think it all went to body language.

I walk away from things I wanted.

I write.

I smile.

I hug.

I love.

But I don't think I was ever good with any of them. Yea, they all sounded perfect in my little ideal world in my head. I thought, "well, at least I'm trying to make the world a little better for myself."

"So you wrote it down I'm supposed to care, even though it's never there"

When the words came to me, yea, they could tell what I wanted. I smile and do other things  because I think it's the least I can do to make others feel a bit better. And for myself, I have at least a little something to smile about, the chance that I might make other people smile, even if it's just a second.

I've always wanted to write a novel. But all I've ever wanted were in pieces, and I couldn't piece any of them together.

I still don't think I can write one. I don't know myself enough. Or, rather, I don't have enough to tell. I can never tell enough either. My life isn't artsy and scripted enough.

It's just filled with friendly intentions and fair-weather smiles.