You think you’re special because when you were growing up you would lock yourself away and create. You would draw or paint or play music, and you would feel like life made sense and you were one with the universe.
Guess what. You’re not special.
Well, you are, but not to the point you get to put down other people.
You think I don’t understand what it is to spend hours locked away somewhere expressing emotions and feelings and thoughts that you can’t share with the world in any other way?
Fuck you, read me.
I know what it’s like to be in the quiet with creativity and understanding. Finding happiness in something I’ve created.
Writing might be different from music or painting,. It might not be able to impart the intended message/emotion in an instant or a look or a bar of notes. Believe me, I wish I was drawn to those mediums. But I suck at guitar and I can’t draw fingers to save my life.
Writing, though arguably one of the most obvious forms of communication is definitely not the fastest. It doesn’t travel to you on vibrations of sound that can feel in your chest, and it can’t attract attention with bright colours and bold lines like a portrait or a photograph can.
But writing, and indeed reading, is patient.
It is direct.
It is art.
And while I may not be at the ‘level’ of a great writer or artist, writing is still the only art I understand. The only one I can’t help but practice.
And I think you know what I mean.