careening into existence

Over the years of living in my apartment, the little corner of my room has been covered with different art mediums, from crocheted granny squares and little oil paintings on my wall to the electric guitar I’ve become more familiar with. I make art, and I consume art. It’s become an endless cycle and has become my only form of therapy. 

I make sense of my world through the songs and lyrics I consume. They provide much-needed dissociation from reality, but only in delicate doses. Deep fears and hidden feelings are translated into art so effortlessly that words or thoughts could never serve them in the same manner. My art shows me things about myself I never knew. The media exists outside of reality. It makes humans something else other than human. 

While many associate it with the heart, I think it's such a strong matter of the mind—another thing that exists outside the tangible world and that we can only access through instinct. Anything you create is unique, and no one will ever make it the same way because it carries the weight of your life experiences and the essence of who you are. 

Art is magical. I can't believe such a thing as art exists sometimes.