Vent

Vent

It feels really weird to not have my art be apart of my daily life anymore. I drew last night and it became boring to me, which is so unlike the person I was a few years ago who drew for hours without stopping at a time. I’m not that girl anymore and I would barely consider myself “burnt out.”

I was telling my dear friend today that what I expected after high school isn’t really what I envisioned. As much as I knew there would be hardships and difficulties, what I didn’t expect is the routines of it all. My friends and I created a bucket lists for us after graduation and here we are a month away from our 1 year anniversary and we’ve completed just 1 thing on that list.

I love my friends. I cry listening to PPP by Beach House on the way home because I miss how we were. After lots of shitty people and mishaps we became an actual group, connected again when I thought I had permanently lost that. It felt so good to feel belonging again, and I still feel that.

I admitted to my beautiful friend that I felt that I needed to be better one on one with people, with friends. I believe I’m doing that, though it is hard when everyone is miles away and they’re doing what they saw. And I’m still here. Running errands, doing homework, falling asleep with an open book on my chest, getting new glasses and coffee runs to cafes with friends. Because in the moment it feels “adult-y” and when I’m at home pondering, I feel older than everyone else around me.

I look at my sisters and feel miles away when in reality they were born just years before or after me. I feel like that one lyric; I’m related to Mitski’s “tall child” and I am stomping around like Godzilla.

Recently having some medical issues that come out of nowhere, I’m stuck in the middle of a war of taking care of myself or self-destructing. I yell at dinner conversations, yell at the water not getting warm in time and still it’s not enough screaming for me. When things like this arise, I don’t think about how stressed I could’ve been and what I could’ve done to have prevented it, my automatic thought is where did it all go wrong? Memory already worsening, my parents ask what I ate that morning and nothing comes to mind. When they ask when I last did the dishes, I realize I don’t even remember what I did that week.

Everything for me is a blur, and after an article I read on Substack I realize my inner child is starved. She remembers trivia facts, birthdays, who wore what and when I think back on the last couple years I find a few things bobbing around. No wonder I find joy in babysitting the kids on my street; no wonder I can recall everything that was said in my art history class and continue on for hours about Mary Cassatt. I have to remember this is all what my inner child lived for, new information to spark my brain up like a firework.

A few weeks back I texted a girl I haven’t talked to or seen but somehow still crush on (severely) and I can remember what it was like to talk with her everyday. I journaled in a way that that was what it was like to feel something, anything again. Being a picky eater but not a picky person. Evaluate and judge what’s right and wrong but taking the risks that fire up my brain. So I get closer and grind to figure out that one day I’ll be closer to that nirvana. My friend told me it’s better to go ahead and do the hard stuff that leads to a better end, that way it feels like forever at least.

Ok I go now I may review a trilogy I’ve read.

Roma