The artist is tired.
The artist needs space to breathe.
The artist embraces artistic discomfort.
The artist grows. The artists feels.
The artist does.
The artist is and the artist demands to live.
The artist now demands a time to live and breathe and take space as the complete human she is.
The artist demands her lungs to open so that internal space can happen.
How do I separate or fuse the self and the artist? I toggle constantly between the two. And that is okay. Perhaps that’s just it.
Sometimes I just want to retreat into some beautiful wooden study with windows, and trees and poetry and words at my finger tips in typed letters. Sometimes I want to be a really boring normal person who just wants to see a shitty movie in Quincy, MA.
And then my soul remembers how huge and on fire it is, and I cannot escape my calling to change the world in some way.
Well. The journey does not end until my death and so it is a rather complicated continuum. ( I also sort of have a suspicion it probably doesn’t even end after death…so.) AND SO, dearest internet, enjoy some end of semester images.