I sat in empty halls and crouched down by full vending machines. Young me would skip steps in stairways and tap my fingers against my desk.
I was normal.
Art was the glitter in water, shining and shimmering constantly. Art was a dandelion in a field of grass. Art was that whisper I heard at 5, telling me this is what you're meant to do.
Growing up, I was stuck between quick confessions and eternal silence. I was stuck between Mom and Dad.I was stuck between breaking the mould and being cemented into the cracks.
I’m still stuck to the way art touched me.
I am the woman in a waiting chair. I have the same problems as she. I am the man in the elevator. I’m from the same town as he. I am the child behind the desk still learning, still growing, yet so sure this will never change. I am average.
Art is the spontaneous.
Art is that feeling I get when I lose. Art was the push telling me to use this hurt as fuel. Art is the calm sun squeezing through the blinds, waking me up and telling me, “get the fuck up and work”.
Art forced me to learn about myself. Art taught me how to love freely. Art told me not to break- to bend instead. When people get upset at me for living my truth, for stepping out of the box without my flashlight on, for not second guessing; I turn back and say, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”