Feeling dogged. I thought art was an escape and a place to bring forth a better self from. I should Deviously learn that there is no sanctity to anything - that I need to keep moving.
I'm reviewing my life logs on what I may have caused in the universe that is reverberating at me. I must have upset people for what I name my collections. Nobody has the first fucking clue how much I have looked inside and outside myself to find something original to give to the world - I don't even know what it is fully yet and I'm still seeking inspiration in whatever form I can find it in and absorb it through the processing I'm capable of. Whatever this blob of an idea sitting in my head is, it's withstood a lot of tests of time, and (through results of this experience) has a lot yet to undergo before withstanding actively under-appreciating eyes. I do still, from the depth of my heart, wish to illuminate the world around me with this idea I am shaping and letting shape me. But I need time away from this beautiful place to tumble rough. If I return, I know that my output will be unquestionable. If I don't, it's not your loss.