isabrokensoul

Why is that we are our own worst critics? In my own mind I feel that like I continuously fail at trying to capture the true essence of my thoughts and feelings. The thousands of words out there to paint with I always seem to find in my arsenal words that are so simple in nature that their substance just seems to fade away before the ink as had time to dry. I never use to proofread my writtings, not because I was afraid of finding spelling or punctuation errors; it was solely because as I waded back through my painting I found that the words I had just painted out across this once virgin canvous rang out as if a third grader who had just learned how to put words to to paper painted it. As I think back on some of my struggles with writting. I am reminded of how I never use to care about just how people would projected themselfs onto me for the way I would dress, or how I would have my hair cut or even who I had as friends. Yet, I would sit passionately locked in my heart and its arsenal of emotions by spend hours sitting in front of a blank page frozen with such fear about what it was that people without emotions might think of me as they stumbled through my paintings; not with their hearts but with the weapons within their twisted minds. I was so very afraid of being subjected to their sharpened quick wit and verbal diarrhea.

As I sit in front of my empty canvous today, I don't sit here frozen by the fears of what it is that people might choose to shit on. My worries of today as I paint on my canvous that there are people out there who are not able to shed themselves of their fears of by allowing themselves to set free the emotions they have kept prisoner in their hearts.