I think a lot these days about, what do I really want to draw.
And that thought has been on going for awhile. What to photograph is so natural to me now that I do not think much to it, but for some reason, it is not the same with being in front of the empty sketchbook. I wonder what this means. I really wonder what is hindering me to draw something out of a blank page. I mean, is it that different from capturing that moment?
Fear is evident. It is the line that aligns between worldly security, and dreamy visions that I cannot just let go.
I dream about challenging myself in a new genre of art. Really, starting with a new fresh heart. And that seems easy because people tell me young, talented, and available, but that sounds easy when it's someone else's story. When it becomes my own, I am hesitant for the longest time, but my heart is kind of crystal clear what I really desire and want.
I really, really want to be honest with myself at least when I am trying to listen to my heart myself. I hate regretting and looking back, and I am quite proud I have made decisions until now where I have never looked back. To make those decisions, it needs endurance and patience, and it is difficult. It is enduring the relationship that seems like that is killing me, it is being patient with a class that makes me realize I don't want to major in this anymore (laugh).
Maybe I am afraid to really draw, because it is so raw form of expression where I can see myself in a disarmed version; and that sometimes is horribly difficult. With camera, it is just so perfect in my hands now that I do my thing whether or not I feel good or bad that day. But with brushes, oil pastels, my status of heart in that right moment is apparent on the surface and it annoys me. The fact that I am not okay. The fact that I am constantly sometimes thinking of one thing over and over again making me emotional. That is why. I still struggle to open the sketchbook, but I decide I will. Again, and again.