A tight feeling constricted my chest as I sat quietly reading. I have this feeling often, a feeling of emptiness and anticipation. The space between my ribs becomes starved for undiscriminating abandonment of all responsibility – I never give in.
I always wonder if I did, what would happen? In these moments, I don’t have any particular desire, except I know that art is an adventure that I have yet to embark upon. Would this emotion look like paint splattered carelessly across a canvass, or the words on this page being fleshed out into the form of something more? Something with life, something that people would read and they would feel the breath of literature on their necks; sparking their insides and becoming aware of the emptiness that too lay in their chests.
As I write these words I know there is a character waiting to be nurtured, and a poem waiting to be unbound and woven back together in tighter, richer patterns. These are children born of my mind, and I deny myself as I deny them.
They say art is a labor of love, and not unlike raising a child you raise your artwork up. You give life to it, and as it grows you grow with it, putting more stake in it’s future with every caress and extension of your being. Like children, denying their growth is to deny yourself, and leave the space between your ribs tense and hallow for all time.
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