It’s a lie to say I love everything I created.
8 out 10, I don’t like my own work.
Especially when they reflect my true state of mind. When I fuck up & lock up my freedom, they lurk in my creation. In sketches. In colors. In brush strokes. In composition.
I hate looking at myself. I can’t turn myself elsewhere. It’s a battle between the mind and the soul.
Those who can’t draw, suggest you to paint to find peace. I laughed.
You only paint to dig up the bottom of your soul. Whatever you find down there, could either be peace, horror, or solitude.
I had found myself many times. I found myself in a mess. I found myself stuck. I did find myself free occasionally though. That was when I was truly happy.
Picasso was right. It takes a long time to feel young again.
In order to set free, maybe I need to let go of complete sanity. Half mad half sane get me to nowhere.
I neither succeed in the world of the logic, nor thrive in the world of art.
Maybe it’s time to go mad, deeply.