A child Writing a Book

I’ve written a thousand stories and writing is something that I’m super passionate about. I was walking home from Blick with my older sister, a attendant of Art school when I started thinking. And when I say I started thinking, what I really mean is I consciously started making relizations/decisions.

For all of my life, social media portrayed artistic people as quiet and observant individuals who holed up in their rooms creating masterpieces that they thought were awful. And when they revealed their final work, it was always more than the sum of its parts. The picture or the painting or the film would have purpose, a message, a deep meaning behind it.

Now, I have been drawing since I could hold a crayon. My parents would give me a whole pack of printer paper every year for Christmas, just for me to draw though the whole thing in the first 6 months. But to this day, I have never felt that my drawings meant nearly as much as my writing does. My writing comes in poems and in monologues, it comes in stories upon stories. And for me personally, I realized that I can stop trying to live up to my sister, or my father, or even my mother, because my artwork, my drawings, they don’t hold as much meaning as my writing does.

In case you’re confused, I must clarify. What I’m trying to say is this, when I’m feeling an extreme emotion, I pick up a notebook, not a sketchbook. And that has to count for something right? I love art, I love making art, but is it possible that my writing is worth more? In terms of deep ethical meaning and shit?

Published by lornamusings

I write here when I delete all my social media and pretend I don’t exist. I’m a teenager who used to live on a beautiful farm by a creek tucked into the sweet aroma of Concord grapes. Now I live in a 15 story apartment complex above a dog park in Philadelphia.

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