Art reveals too much

If you like to talk and have a lot of thoughts...you do a podcast.

If you have an affinity for music...you sing or play or create said piece.

If you prefer to draw, paint, sketch...you...well do just that in whatever form.

All of these art forms/outlets are our escape.

Mine happens to be writing.

Through years of trauma, trials and triumph, I've done it...needed it...and unfortunately more times than not, avoided it. It wasn't for a lack of trying. My inconsistency with writing had nothing to do with the typical assumptions most writers struggle with... (imposter syndrome, writer's block, or just lack of inspiration.) It's me, and it always has been.

I've always been fairly jealous of the raw emotion, romance, and allusive creativity others have by just writing from their heart. I'm terrible at editing, I'm way too hard on myself, and get slightly anxious when the flow of my story doesn't sound the way that I'd like. Knowing this, that still isn't even the true reason why I haven't fully cultivated my imagination in words...again, it's me.

I'm sentimental with the ones I love, can be sweet and soft (when I want), try to offer the best solutions and help if I can, but I hold all of that back in my writing. In a space where you should release your heart and mind the most, I haven't been able to. I'm afraid to truly reveal myself when I write. It came to me randomly one day: Art reveals too much and I knew exactly would it mean to me.

Dancers, singers, artists and the like often talk about losing themselves and just letting it flow, even been known to often "black out" when they perform. Art is all about is storytelling. The artist creates it and the consumer translates it's meaning. Your audacity and passion shouldn't have any restrictions while in that mode. I've always admired that, but I have rarely experienced it. When I vent and write it out it feels different for me but that is the closest I have gotten.

My struggles with vulnerability are my own.

Vincent van Gogh. Ernest Hemingway. Frida Kahlo. All names we know or at least familiar with. These iconic artists/writers are world renowned for their works, though their commonality stripped them bare, mental illness. Their struggles with it made them surrender themselves into darker themes with most leaving them exposed even through praise. Even if you channel your all into what you love, art doesn't always exhibit the beauty and majesties of life and human experiences.

What I can say is that they probably didn't have the privilege of being able to hold themselves back. They often didn't have too many loved ones or other means to release the myriads of emotions they were feeling. All they had to cleave to were paint or some paper. However, that also doesn't mean that getting it out wasn't hard, regardless of the beautiful outcome.

I know there were many nights where they fought against themselves to create each piece, crying, worrying, scared...wondering if they should cross certain lines. I have done that often. Inspiration sparks me in the middle of the night, and I'll hop out of bed ready to write (type) out my brilliant idea until...it hits a little too close to home or triggers something I thought was buried. Writing from within can either make your insecurities your muse or your phobia.

Aging can also challenge those same insecurities...or amplify it. My heart can be over the top. It's cliché, overly romantic, deeply morbid, confusing and even shocking. These are all things that I want to slowly unravel, I just wish I would have recognized it sooner. I was so focused on trying to sound like a writer that I wasn't really revealing what was true to my lived experiences.

I've lived through many a melodramatic moment, heartbreaks, grief, even hilarious moments that I dare not speak of again. None of these are unique to me and though that give me some solace in relativeness, I have to be unafraid to say how it happened in my own way and why it's relevant to my audience.

Doing the thing calls for art and vulnerability to meet.

Though, I believe in many ways it remains in the realm of a paradox. We're afraid to share shards of our truths and what it might echo; but we need this specific medium to release everything contained. My issue has been the latter and I'm glad I know this now. Try as you might, you can't truly dodge your own heart, your longing, your intimacy when art is your weapon of choice.

Athletic abilities are usually revered with the likes of an art and held to an almost higher pedestal. With athletes, their release is manifested physically, and it doesn't quite tell us who they are the way art can. There seems to be no real emotional stake in it the way you can with creating. However, my lack of athletic acumen leaves me biased, but still much to my point, so I guess I had no choice in the matter being drawn to art.

You can't be as bubbly and silly as I am while also carrying a heart that's deeper than words can even express and expect me to want to dribble a ball or run faster than average. Much respect to those that can but that just wasn't my burden to bear in this life. I'd love to know what the other side feels like but that would still leave me at an emotional deficit. I just don't think that you're capable of articulating your true self without immersing yourself in some type of art.

Luckily for me, this epiphany doesn't leave me desperate to spew my imagination in one sitting. I know now that all I have to do is activate a slow burn. No regurgitation, self-conscious (or self-righteous) judgement, or fear of being vulnerable. Breaking down and spreading out what I'm feeling (or what has been real for me) will allow me to showcase some of the more sacred and complicated sides of me without feeling like I'm revealing too much.

I think that's important to say because some things you can't always articulate...not when it makes you who you are. Those secrets or nuanced experiences don't have to be unveiled all the time; a little mystery is healthy in doses. I just know now that it's okay make my writing softer, more vulnerable; because art without love and vulnerability creates perversion.