Bad art

I have lived and breathed through my art, I have loved people in silence yet so loud with my art, I found the strength to forgive people through my art and I am learning to love myself through my art. The repressed emotions I had within myself found an outlet and I came to realise that it was normal. That it was normal to accept feelings I had been trying to hide for so long. I still wonder where I would be if I kept on believing that parts of me I disliked could never learn to love by itself.

The distinction to call art good or bad feels like a limit, a limit to control the way we humans are capable of expressing ourselves. We are all in this together. Together in an effort to be understood.We all have our art. Art never has to be something that can be witnessed by others. It can be anything. It could be a feeling inside you, the crumpled paper in your room that has your words, strokes or melody, or simply your existence. It could be the way you hold someone, the way you help others to stay here a bit longer, the way you believe in people or the way you embrace yourself when you are alone. 

In a world so desperate to make everything so perfect, you and I have both found our own art that tells us why living in an imperfect world is worth it. Art was never an escape from life, it is how we live life twice. Once in the moment and twice with your art, understanding it. No one should ever be criticized for the way they see the world for that is how they create their art. It is too saddening to hide your art for the belief that people might not like it for I have found my favourite poems written by people halfway across the globe. For I have found music that spoke to me in languages I can't decipher. For I have found hope in words spoken by strangers and I have found love to keep. All of this happened because I believed with our fleeting existence it would be a sin to believe that our art never has a place in this world. 

All the words I have ever written are placed in front of so many, to be judged, to be understood, to be liked and some days it makes me so self-conscious. Everyone who has ever read anything I have written knows everything and nothing about me. The person that stringed together so many of these words don't exist anymore but it feels like a tribute. A tribute to remember the person whose beliefs have turned to mere ashes with the passing time. I do wonder whether the version of myself that I was so proud of will be disappointed in me but I know she'll understand that I tried. I tried to be understood more than to be loved and that has made all the difference. 

We have come so far

With stories of our own

You hold a universe in you

With your brief existence

The world will listen to you

And how you survived

For where would we have been 

Without our art.