mechanism driving the art


A thousand words describing a multitude of emotions have marched behind my eyes, stabbing the nerves which tug on my sanity. Images in more colors than imaginable have caressed my brain, tempting the brush to my hand. How could I ignore these? A friend in pain and distressed needed my presence. And there I went, not even acknowledging the taunts of my mind until now.

Sometimes they come fast and furious but by the time I reach paper or blog spot I can remember little. What is it that pushes and pulls all of this to and from the forefront of my consciousness? Am I insane, just a little? Or is it pent-up creativity from decades past, bubbling to the surface, demanding its time in the spotlight? I couldn't say, but I do know this: I am master and slave to it. I love how it makes me feel and become equally frustrated when I cannot express it at will. The learning of the craft competes with the need to let it flow, as well as the needs beyond myself for family and friends. A dilemma to be sure, but one I'm willing to struggle with.


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