Better Days by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
Mayla by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
I have always been artistic. It is just a natural instinct for me to pour myself into a medium. Too many things in my head causes them to cluster and bunch together to the point where I have to take moments of utter stillness to chisel them out.
This new project I’m doing falls closest to my heart, I guess. I have this box of things. Jars of things. Bins of things. Thoughts and doodles scribbled on scrap papers. Things I’ve collected due to some odd sense of not wanting to lose them, seeing a glimmer of value and sentiment in them. Pieces of my life I’ve kept for years upon years. I’m taking these fragments and assembling them in a big book of me.
I’m smiling like an idiot because it all sounds so selfish, but I feel like it’s something I have to do. One step towards…whatever.
It’s like a huge scrapbooking project of junk.
Quite metaphorical, actually cx
I hereby challenge you to just create.
Create your world and mold your thoughts and slap shit on paper and call it art because it’s yours.
In art, I sow a bit of my happiness.
And I’m perfectly okay with that c:
I’m happy and no one person could ever take that away from me. Not ever again.
With love and messy hands,