i draw sometimes. i also paint, but on rare occasions. i don't have an off key voice, and i do play piano, but mainly,

i write.

i write, and after thoroughly going through the depth of my mind, i wonder if it's enough to name me as an artist. i create content ; surfaces of interpretation vary and dance across the words i project against a white page.

and still, though i am perhaps, potentially, maybe an artist, i can not help but feel a profound and voracious fury and hatred for art.

that is because, i am in the impossibility of creating when i am happy.

i can only go through the metaphors of words, let the phrases slide against one another as on command, only when i am miserable. mostly, my writings carry a melancholic tune, a tragic spin. no wonder i need to sense the grief and sadness creeping behind my back in order to write something pessimistic.

i hate it, because that means, i can only be good at what i adore (writing),when i'm sad, and i can only consider myself as an artist when i'm sad, or only consider myself, well...as a sad artist.

i am stuck. i can only seek satisfaction within tragedy, and the paradoxical thing is right there : in times when everything is okay, i am still miserable, because i can not write. i need to write, i crave it, to live. so truly, it feels as if i could never be satisfied, never be happy at all.

i'll sink into despair, in order to find satisfaction, turn back to the misery of non inspiration, and constantly fluctuate between sad, and not satisfied.