Artisticmania

It’s been said that artists should be different, that they actually have the obligation to see the world with stranger eyes, but when the realization of that look strikes you in the face, one does not feel special. It feels weird like there is something missing from your bonnes, like God made you emptier than most people. In the begining you hate the feeling and you try very hard to ignore it, secretly hoping that it will go away. After a while you see, it hasn’t then the pain starts to sink in. Denial crushes into reality and all of those locked emotions come into light (sure, one doesn’t have to be an artist in order to feel like this, the difference is that ordinary people suffer and forget constantly wanting happiness, while artists, in my opinion, transform pain into a way of living. There is always something that hurts and that must be revealed.).
It starts with the lack of sleep. Nights become torture. Every single aspect of the day is over analised, every sentence used, every look from freinds and foes. It’s like instead of eyes there is a gigantic loop that magnifies everything. Like seeing all the detalis of an ant’s life. The worse part? That you can’t stop asking yourself questions, doubting
even the security of breathing and even more you start to imagine how the world would look if some things were distinct. Millions of scenarios pop up out of nowhere. The result? – Disappointment.

In the eye of an artist, a sensitive one at least, grass, air, the sun and moon have different and strange interpretations. Everything is transformed. Where is the good? Well, when you really write something nice, there is your reward, but caution, it does not last long. Soon, you think that what your mind created is beneath what you can do. Constantly you say, Be BeTTer!  = obsession.
Your heart is alone, although, one may be surrounded by lots of people, even friends. You love them, but still feel alone. Why?
Because they do not see the world like you do, because they do not care about the different shades of green that the grass has, or that the sun sometimes seems to be watching us. In their eyes this is rubbish and guess what, thay may be right. That is the moment in which you stop telling other people how you see the world, writing becomes the only world in which you are free. Only you and your mind, and, of course all the jumpping thoughts that never stop …