There isn't enough time to do all that I want to do in this life. In other words: I haven't had time to pick up a brush or a pencil in months. Which is devastatingly depressing. I want my art supplies back. I want to have the smell of turpentine overcome me, the scent of oils filling my nostrils, paint caking on my fingers, need to wash several times with that orange scrub in order to fully rinse off. I want to draw the random figures I see when I stare in a carpet long enough. I want to doodle scenes from life, capture moments in time. Pine pine, yearn yearn. My time is instead spent creating digitally. Which has its ups. But it has its downs. And one of those downs is that I can't hold or smell or touch what it is I am creating. So I'm knitting again. Because at least those materials are on this side of the country and I can feel and see what it is I am making.
I want to run away with nothing but a sketchbook and a case of pencils. I'll move to Paris and draw pedestrians. Sell my drawings for pennies. I would be happy.
I want to live in a world in which it is okay not to make money, to do nothing but art all day long, to cook delicious foods from one's own garden, and be completely and utterly content.
I'm not 25 today. Why do I feel like I'm having a quarter-life crisis?
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