“When I’m painting regularly I start looking at the world different. I notice the way the light hits a tree. I see shadows between leaves. I see the gradual change between shades of green. I notice all the little parts of it. And then I see the whole tree.”
How we spend our time doesn’t only change the time we’re spending. It bleeds into everything. Your existence becomes tinted. Our thoughts, our habits. We reflect them back to ourselves. Constantly shifting. Our creativity is like any muscle that grows or atrophies depending on its use. A central theme to build around. Something to color everything.
When I’m writing I start hearing words different. Every conversation has a rhythm, rich tones, underlying themes. Thoughts get trapped in my head until they get dissected by pens and paper, keyboards and blank screens. I get lost in the introspection of it. Perpetually pulling apart each piece of me. But it’s better than the rest. When my brain is quiet. When the writing stops the world seems to flow through me. Nothing is analyzed or explained. Nothing is explored. The moments that cut are left alone and they only fester.
Perhaps there is a balance somewhere. Between wanting to know the whys and hows of everything and letting life just happen to me. Maybe there is a certain sense of sanity in being angry or defensive or disliking somebody and never questioning it. Maybe there is an ease. But that’s never been good enough for me. A kid taking apart an old clock radio. I want to find all the little pieces. It’s not enough to know it hurts. I need to know why. It’s not about fixing. It’s about discovery.