Art.

I did some art last night.

I used to love making art. Not really like paintings, but drawing, or ruining paintings and making them look the way they make me feel. That kind of thing.

But I have held that in for the last eight years. All because J. was really condescending towards art, and artists. I have my theories on why she is that way. But I will keep those to myself today. This post isn't about her.

I had forgotten the kind of fever that I get when I make art. This moment of zoning out while things are being created. That is why I love writing so much, I can sustain that feeling for a very long time when I'm writing. But there is something about the visceral touch and sent and feeling of making some kind of art project.

Last night I used markers, and spray paint, and plants and an old painting, and I made something new from all of it. And I like how it turned out. I will probably hang it up at home. I think I'm going to work on making more of my brand of art.

I lost a lot of myself in this whole deal.

Time to take that back.

File under Virtue.