Solitude

Assigned: ~Decemeber 16, 2012
Alone. Solitude. Silence.
These words have never meant so much (and on a bigger, metaphorical level) to me the past two years. I remember the discussion we had in class once about No Exit and what was one's personal hell. I remember someone saying that isolation and/or physical pain was probably most people's hell.

Then maybe, I've been in hell the past two years. It's waking up to a migraine, with bright, blinding lights in your face. It's anxiety and panic attacks that you can't explain. It's a looming, brooding emotion that clings onto you. It's a disease that everyone wants to explain to you. Want to fix for you. Want to give solutions to you. But you, yourself, don't even know what it is. It is depression.

Trapped in my own head, my own mind. Filled with racing thoughts at night. The only thing at night accompanies me along with insomnia. There is no true outlet, because it is almost impossible to articulate to anybody, despite how "professional" in the field they are and despite how intimate my relationship with them is. This mental isolation is hell.

However, it's not so much the physical isolation that bothers me most of the time. In fact, one of my most favorite things in the world, is to be alone with myself. Not in any self-righteous way. But walking around the city with a very observing, pensive outlook. Sitting on the train and not knowing where I'm headed. Stopping where I want to stop. When I want to stop. Watching mothers cradle their precious child. Watching girls cry to their girlfriends on the phone. Watching "Steve" carry a sign that reads "Disabled. Please HELP". Listening to the wind chimes as I pass creaky, old houses in Uptown. Listening to children's laughter as I pass Lincoln Park Zoo. Listening to the waves of Lake Michigan crash the concrete just below my feet.
It's a paradoxical feeling; being physically alone- but because of the stillness, the silence, you realize you are not. And you become so small, yet so fulfilled. So much more than just one being.

I Know This Means SOMETHING

Assigned: November 28, 2012
Art means something to me and I think it is most appropriate to reply to this post with my personal statement I wrote for colleges:

Art is an idea formed in the soul and spoken out to society. In Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare stated, “The object of art is to give life a shape.” A friend once asked me what made my life worthwhile. I replied that if I were unable to produce art, to evoke emotion and express myself, I would rather die. This startled him. He, like most people, thinks of art as unpractical, unsuccessful, and unaccountable.

Art, to him, is not a necessity, with no true evolutionary purpose. Some might argue that a fork is more practical than art. Yet, the fork, once upon a time, was a piece of art. It was an idea that sparked in someone’s head. From just a mere thought to a sketch to a verbal subject, and finally physically crafted from wood, the creation process and the fork, itself, were art.  

Although art cannot be physically consumed by my body, it is crucial to my life; I digest the thoughts fed to me from society, process it, and create my own opinion. This freedom of expression played a further significant and intimate role when I was struggling with depression my junior and senior year. My feelings seemed impossible to adequately articulate when I had the disease. My only outlet for my complex thoughts and emotions was through the creation of visual arts.

I remember isolating myself from my dearest friends and family daily. I locked myself in my room for several days, repeatedly painting gray lines, the same color that seemed to haunt my daily life. Through painting, I was able to release my frustration and my physical pain from migraines and frequent nights of insomnia. Soon, the trees in my scenic paintings darkened over time, the once glowing sunset dulled, and the faces blurred and faded into each other. Every stroke I place on the canvas was filled with bitterness, exhaust, and agony.

While people neglect art to avoid misery and poverty as the notorious starving artist stereotype does, I sought art as a solace from my personal distress. Art has been uplifting; fantastic poets, authors, and songs motivated me to live on. I find no charm in the American Dream; money cannot buy my happiness or success. My fulfillment is the freedom of expression.

Although art is broad and unaccountable, I understand all tangible things are fleeting. One day, unfortunately, close friends, family and belongings must perish. Art never dies. Art is science, a question. Art is philosophy, a thought. Art is human, an emotion. It does not solely apply to visuals; it can only be seen with the heart.

Art lives on through other people, shaping their lives. Every time someone attempts to interpret it, a new seed of idea is planted. It is a concept that grows in every single individual, changing, morphing and reshaping daily.

I am an artist. Although my external form will decay one day, I hope to use my voice to live on through others, through art.