Torment

My creativity yearns for freedom, pushing on my flesh like that of a child pushing to be born. My mind drifts and wanders thinking of all the mediums I wish to explore. My hands crave to be encrusted with paint, my fingernails pleading to be dirty and packed with charcoal and chalk, my mind concocting stories and tales for children, women, and lovers.

I dream of a time when I allow myself to be the artist inside, a time when I can get lost creating; lost in the thoughts, images, and scenes that play out in my head. These are what distract me while I work and play. As this hunger pursues, I question who I am and what my purpose is.

Yet I am unsure and afraid to let out that which burns with in my soul. I allow my fear to manifest reasons I cannot free the beast; reasons of being a mother, wife, daughter, friend, and stranger. My fear and insecurity feed on my energy, consuming my time, stifling my creativity and I allow it. Excuses pour from by head of no time, to tired, no money, and work as my heart bleeds.

I feel that I am lost a world of possession, perception, and position; on this my anxiety feeds. It is engrained in use from childhood that the arts are extra circular activities. These are to be enjoyed and practiced if “life” allows us time and we are getting a good enough grade. Practice of these should be left up the truly gifted, the eccentrics, the crazy’s, the moody artists. We are taught to be successful and accepted we must live the American dream. We must have the house in the suburbs, drive the family cars, have the required 2.5 children, 1 dog and a cat. We must be well rounded with a mortgage payment, car payments and saving for our children’s college. We strive for a better title and bigger pay check. We assume debt keeping up with the Jones, Smiths and Andrews. We need to hold a higher position by having more possessions, and projecting the perception of happiness. For this I have covered the voice of my creativity with the black paint of doubt and stretched canvas of fear.

My creativity withers in torment, growing tired and impatient of being pushed away and drowned out. I feel it, despite my best attempts, it grows stronger more forceful. It has now grown teeth and claws, ripping away all that I have used to cover it. It is irritated at being locked away. It gnaws at my being, creating a passion that grows and demands attention. If not freed, I fear it will drive me mad; it will ruin my position, my place. It will consume the whole of me driving away all reason, time and responsibility. I must find a balance. I cannot forsake all that is here in front of me, yet I cannot deny that which pushes and pulls at my thoughts.

It must be freed.