I was well into this journal before I truly realized what it was about. It started as artistic play, simply stream of consciousness in artistic form. This journal hit me like an addiction or a compulsion. Every single day for a few weeks, I spent time at my studio desk. Working through the pages, clearing my mind, and escaping from the world into glue, paper, paint and ink–minutes turned into hours. It was as if my mind was racing and if I could only get some semblance of these thoughts out of my mind and onto the page I would feel a sense of relief. As if, somehow, once it was visual and tangible I could find some sense of peace.
I still didn’t find peace, but I found an escape, a hiding place where I felt relevant. (I feel it is important to mention–I do have a very safe, loving and supportive home life. It isn’t that I felt any literal need to hide or escape from any aspect of my life–I simply get overwhelmed with the world.) I struggle to figure out where I fit the grand scheme of life and where I am going from here. Some days everything feels very empty and broken in the grand scheme of life, yet I feel inspired and full of love in my tiny scope of life–I struggle with that stark dichotomy daily. I think everyone wants to be heard, but most of us feel utterly voiceless. This is my voice, I suppose. It is small, but art has become my hiding place, and ultimately my weapon of choice.