It has been several months since I have really sat down and written.
I used to think that I was going to be a writer. Or possibly an editor, quite frankly I never really made up my mind on which I preferred. It has always been one of those things stuck in the back of my mind, much like the possibility of one day getting married, or remembering to call my grandmother. It has always been something that I felt I was going to get around to eventually, but have never actually put any effort into achieving. But then again, I have also never been able to truly label myself. For instance, I love to paint yet will never refer to myself as an artist. It is too easy to let people down when you have a label. I am too afraid of failure. Despite this, I don’t want to live the entirety of my life afraid, fearing that I might very well end up alone, or that I may never be successful in my career, or possibly even that nobody will see value in the things I create. All I want to do is be something that inspires people. It is why I love my job, as with every person I talk to, I have the opportunity to bring sunshine into their day, even if it is only between the time they order their morning coffee and when their car pulls away. It is also why I fear anybody seeing the things I create in my free time. I recently read something that said, “...the world is only as big or as small as your courage.” I live in the most beautiful place in the world. I am near a cultural hub, surrounded by people and trees and mountains and miles of the deep blue sea: and yet I seem to isolate myself.I spend my alone time slouched in front of the television, or taking rambling walks through my neighborhood. I never wanted to live in a world so small. And yet, it is only small because of my own actions. I am in the perfect place to grow and to create. As almost always, I am the only thing standing in the way of myself, always too afraid that I won’t be enough. For a change, I am going to believe in myself. For once, I might even label myself as an artist. After all, I miss it.
The writing especially has always been what I miss most. It has always been they form of art that calls to my soul the strongest on a base level. I think in words. I know that sounda relatively universal, but I see the words on paper, see the chapters of my life turning on the page of an old, leather bound book. It is the way I document my own life. I am one long, ongoing essay, a product of the things I read and the people I meet. An amalgamation of the person I want to be and the art my soul so desperately craves to be. And maybe, I’m an artist too. Maybe, one day I won’t be too afraid of people seeing who I am to actually share it with the world.
The practice of nihilism states that there is no point to the universe. Essentially that we come from nothing, and back to nothing we will become. I believe art is the way humanity combats that. We give meaning to our own life. I am learning to find that meaning once again.