As far as I remember I liked creating things. Drawings, stories, plays. My imagination was on an endless run. When childhood started to fade, a part of me got stopped by people’s stare or lack of attention. I still said I liked writing, and I was still drawing. Then I started believing I had not enough talent. That art was for my sister who draw so well, my cousin whom my aunt was always praising. Not for me. I put myself in a box. I stopped everything.Only recently I started talking about my writing again. Not even investing much time in it. “Nobody’s interested anyway”. Only recently I started considering this space as a form of art. Not sharing it apart with very close people. “But nobody’s reading it anyway”. Only recently I started drawing again. Not really taking it seriously. “Nobody likes them anyway”.
I have some moments in which I wonder why I am doing this. If I am not wasting my time on silly dreams. But I don’t need to be Picasso or the next Pulitzer. I love creating. Any kind of creation. It doesn’t need to be “good enough”. As long as I create and it makes me feel good. As long as it makes me feel alive. As long as I am myself. Not doing it for people’s appreciation. But for myself. First. Creating myself, basically.