The following is a short rambling that I almost considered a poem, maybe it is a poem. Or maybe it’s just me writing or maybe I’m proving the exact thing I’m writing about. Either way, this piece was inspired by an edition of the newsletter, Velvet Reverie. I didn’t realize that piece struck such a cord with me until I was halfway into writing my piece inspired by it. 

All I really know is that I write to understand, I write to feel, and sometimes I write and I don’t even realize it. So hope you enjoy this process of me trying to understand the feeling of being a writer and an artist. 

What is an artist?

The artists I see are messy, they don’t follow the rules or color inside the lines. They’re here but just a little bit not. Am I an artist if I’m not messy? Am I still a writer if my room isn’t littered with papers and my hands aren’t smudged with ink? Am I even an artist at all? Is writing an art? I suppose it is otherwise I wouldn’t be asking myself what an artist is…

What makes me an artist when my belongings are securely stashed away in filing cabinets in my mind? But maybe my mind is the mess because why do I have filing cabinets, how much do I have trapped in there that needs to be organized? 

Maybe I’m an artist because I keep asking myself the same questions with no new answers. Maybe I’m an artist because I only look at the horizon, not the sand between my toes. 

Or maybe I’m an artist because I write and I write but I still don’t know myself. 

Or because I dream of running but never put the shoes on and tie the laces.

But my desk will always be organized and my calendar updated, don’t doubt that but I will doubt myself.

I read sometimes and wish I could write something even half as well. I wish the words would find me perfectly, but they don’t find me. I have to go looking in the filing cabinets that are covered in dust and cobwebs. Turn on lights that haven’t been touched in years just to find the words someone has already arranged in a better way. Is that an artist? Constantly wishing to be something they aren’t? Or does an artist already know where they’ve been and where they are going? 

These days I’m pulling at threads that lead to nothing, just the sweater falling apart. I’ll pull until I have a pool around my feet. 

Maybe I’m an artist because I keep scratching at a wound that never heals. 

Maybe I’m an artist because I find a poem in everything I see. 

Or maybe I’m an artist because I keep looking for the words to explain the way I am.

Or because I turn over memories in my mind like coins.

But I’ll keep going the way I am because writing is like breathing. 

What is an artist?

Guess it’s me…

See ya! 

Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you next week!

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