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Description
I'm sick.
A sickness not every one knows.
Only a small group of people know how hard it is to have it.
How tiring, frustating, saddening.
I'm having an art blockade.
A sickness that can't be healed with medicaments.
I don't want to cure it. I don't want to draw anymore. It's okay to write, but I don't want to use pencils anymore.
Of course I need to. For school. And it's making me freaking crazy.
As I'm standing there, smoking, listening to the wrong kind of music, I realize, that I fit the picture and feel relieved. After weeks of freaking out ,finally I found a bunch of picture again. You don't need to understand that. I'm living >in pictures<, I don't have a personality, never wanted one, never needed one, I just take a picture- there's one for every situation.
But I don't fit the picture of an artist. I probably never will.
After loosing what I loved the most, I had to spend weeks without beeing able to fit a picture. Somehow funny... when I think, that I nearly died...
The first picture I could find, was a sad one. And I'm still behaving like a lover who was left behind. The picture of depression was the second one. I'm remembering slowly, all the pictures I collected in my life. But I don't find those with the smiling faces on it. I guess I should be happy. I'm having a good live, there are so many reasons, why I should be happy. By forgetting why happiness is important for humans, I forgot what it means to be happy. I'm not sad about it. Actually, I don't really care.
The only problem is... that art was something I allways associated with happiness.
But how can I draw if I feel exactly nothing when I take a pencil in my hand?
Not a clue.

Art was my first rebellion. I don't remember exactly... how often was I hit? How often locked in this dark room for ours? Because I wanted to draw, what was forbidden. And when they took away my paper, I drew on my arms. I didn't care about the violence. I wanted to draw, so I did. Over years and years, now matter what they tried in order to educate me. They gave up trying to educate me, in the end. Years passed. Why do children/teenager always want to be a rebell? I don't know anymore. I don't know, what was so important about drawing.

My mind already said goodbye to drawing. No sadness. Just a "ok, that's it. Let's go to the next chapter of this life"
Only problem: I have to draw for school.
And not a clue how to solute that problem.
In order to draw I would need to create a picture. By analyzing, putting together behavior, thought patterns, all the little detail, all the feelings. But do you know how damn difficult it is to analyze humans so extremly, that you can put fragments of personality together to create a new one? No? Well... let's just say it takes much time for the theorie, and much more to learn the acting.

Is art a sickness?
Is an art blockade the sickness? Or is it the cure?
If artist are called strange, mentally sick? Does beeing an artist means, beeing sick?
Or is art the expression of the sickness we all carry? This sickness made by society?

Description
I'm sick.
A sickness not every one knows.
Only a small group of people know how hard it is to have it.
How tiring, frustating, saddening.
I'm having an art blockade.
A sickness that can't be healed with medicaments.
I don't want to cure it. I don't want to draw anymore. It's okay to write, but I don't want to use pencils anymore.
Of course I need to. For school. And it's making me freaking crazy.
As I'm standing there, smoking, listening to the wrong kind of music, I realize, that I fit the picture and feel relieved. After weeks of freaking out ,finally I found a bunch of picture again. You don't need to understand that. I'm living >in pictures<, I don't have a personality, never wanted one, never needed one, I just take a picture- there's one for every situation.
But I don't fit the picture of an artist. I probably never will.
After loosing what I loved the most, I had to spend weeks without beeing able to fit a picture. Somehow funny... when I think, that I nearly died...
The first picture I could find, was a sad one. And I'm still behaving like a lover who was left behind. The picture of depression was the second one. I'm remembering slowly, all the pictures I collected in my life. But I don't find those with the smiling faces on it. I guess I should be happy. I'm having a good live, there are so many reasons, why I should be happy. By forgetting why happiness is important for humans, I forgot what it means to be happy. I'm not sad about it. Actually, I don't really care.
The only problem is... that art was something I allways associated with happiness.
But how can I draw if I feel exactly nothing when I take a pencil in my hand?
Not a clue.

Art was my first rebellion. I don't remember exactly... how often was I hit? How often locked in this dark room for ours? Because I wanted to draw, what was forbidden. And when they took away my paper, I drew on my arms. I didn't care about the violence. I wanted to draw, so I did. Over years and years, now matter what they tried in order to educate me. They gave up trying to educate me, in the end. Years passed. Why do children/teenager always want to be a rebell? I don't know anymore. I don't know, what was so important about drawing.

My mind already said goodbye to drawing. No sadness. Just a "ok, that's it. Let's go to the next chapter of this life"
Only problem: I have to draw for school.
And not a clue how to solute that problem.
In order to draw I would need to create a picture. By analyzing, putting together behavior, thought patterns, all the little detail, all the feelings. But do you know how damn difficult it is to analyze humans so extremly, that you can put fragments of personality together to create a new one? No? Well... let's just say it takes much time for the theorie, and much more to learn the acting.

Is art a sickness?
Is an art blockade the sickness? Or is it the cure?
If artist are called strange, mentally sick? Does beeing an artist means, beeing sick?
Or is art the expression of the sickness we all carry? This sickness made by society?