These artists, these writers, these words that I insatiably devour in hopes that I can be full… filled, with their passion, their conviction, their reckless showcase of emotion. Envious, I watch them burn with a need for expression that I have only half-heartedly pursued.
I wanted a plastic version of this desire, one that was easy to clean and didn’t break if it fell out the window of a speeding car, or smashed in my pockets when I tripped on the sidewalk after a drunken night.
My greatest fear has never been of dying, or of being alone…
It is the idea that I won’t ever be able to articulate this unquestionable, uncompromising love for something that burns in my inner core, that is MINE, that can’t be taken or received but only created by my beating heart and shallow, excited breaths and a tingling sensation that pricks the hairs up on my forearms in a goose-bumped terrain.
It is this fear of never, fully, owning what I have been given, never accepting the invitation, hand-delivered and with a bow,
that makes me save folders of quotes,
scraps of artwork from magazines,
books that weigh my shelves into an exhausted slope,
beautiful metaphors copied in haste on lined paper,
sepia-toned photos of train adventures from 1932,
jazz records that skip,
outdated publications with inspiring fonts,
personal journals from 8 years old to present.
But still, living vicariously through someone else’s art, is not really living your own.