I've got the itch.
The creative itch.
The itch to paint, to write, to draw, to design.
I sat and wrote last night and realized how much I missed writing, really writing. But doesn't everyone have a half finished novel tucked away somewhere? No? Well, those are the type of people I like the most.
I have a hard time creating when I'm happy. In my freshman honors composition class, I wrote a paper about how tragic I found that compromise. Now, without a composition class to push me, I find myself skimming on the time I take to write, to reflect. The blog, it helps but it's not the same. Here, I write for everyone else, I don't take the time to write for myself.
Last night, I read what I had written. I wonder how I found the wisdom I had then - I was only fourteen, which is impossible to imagine. I remember the starting lines scrawled in a notebook late at night, laying on the floor, hiding what I had written. It's strange how things change.
In high school, my creative side took form in art. I challenged my mother's insults on my painting abilities and learned to paint. I never loved it in class; I hated my art teacher.. No, really. But, oil paint was comfortable from the first stroke. There's something about the colors, the texture, the smell that I can never leave for long.
This morning, I woke up at seven o'clock knowing I had to paint. Something. Anything. I read until nine o'clock when Michael's would open. I needed canvas, brushes, turpentine. I drug my french easel from the top shelf of my closet. I slide the legs down, tightened the bolts. I cleaned my paints, growled when half of them were sealed tight, impossible to open.
But I painted.
It's a step.
