Complimentary Pressures

All I need, is this room on fire

Oftentimes I hear people say, “You really do have a talent for art, I never could make anything look that good”, “You write so well, you could make a living off it”, “I want to get a sketchbook too and practice art like you”. With every one of these it feels like a little stone is tossed upon the weight on my shoulders, an obligation to continue to keep making good art, a feeling of someone standing right over my shoulder watching me every time I pick up a pencil or open my text editor.

Am I, in my own way full of art?

Practice art to experience becoming

“Picasso started just like this”, “You write as good as Rick Riordan”, I wish for my art to be complimented as my creation, I do not want to be the next Vasari, nor do I want to be Dante's reincarnate, I want to be Abdul, in every way and every manner possible. I would rather hear, “That is so Abdul”, than, “You're the next Picasso”.

I, in my own way, want to become art.

Whatever I may go through today, the Sun will surely rise from the east tomorrow

“I'm a jigsaw of tremendous art”, I whisper to myself as I write this post and I realise it's been quite a while since I've said it out loud, which was funny to me because I said it almost everytime I faced one block or the other, whenever things got hard, whenever things seemed bright, it just felt like the right thing to say, a way of me reminding myself that the universe isn't done with me yet and so am I not done with the universe.

I, in my own way, will become art

https://open.spotify.com/track/70C4NyhjD5OZUMzvWZ3njJ?si=JdGPBkUER1mA7oMNX-yNdQ