Confession: I still find it hard to call myself an artist. It just feels — wrong. It’s one of those things. The ironic part is that I studied art all through high school and even did a three year Bachelor’s degree in Visual Art. But calling myself an artist still feels silly, like I don’t really belong in that category. And anyway, can you really call yourself an artist if you just pull out your paints randomly, whenever inspiration decides to strike? Because that’s me, that’s what I do. 

It feels like I haven’t written a new post here for a little while. It’s probably only been about a week, but it feels like longer. The reason? I simply haven’t felt like it. I’ve been preoccupied — with the mundaneness of life, the get up and go of work, and the freezing temperatures here in Melbourne, and I haven’t felt particularly inspired. When I started this blog over a year ago, I knew I never wanted it to feel like ‘work.’ Instead, I wanted it to be something I elected to do, for no other reason than because I was in the mood. In the mood to write? Write. Not in the mood? Then don’t. I wanted my writing to be the ultimate hobby. And, for the most part, it has been.

I realised tonight during my walk, that I had developed an almost visceral need to use my creativity this past year. I started this blog last year in March. I made a few short videos, took hundreds of photos, and wrote, wrote, wrote. Yes, I’ve always considered myself to be somewhat creative, but this was different. This desire I had to create all the time felt driven by something else – and it was. I used my writing as a coping mechanism, and the photos and videos I took felt necessary to my survival. Yes, it really was that extreme.