20 is a fabulous age to embark on self-discovery. I am bitten from ambition, I will put everything into every day to make it count, to create, repeate, create, repeate. No more of the “I’m not good enough” attitude. How about “I can do that too!” or “Let me try something like that.” There is no one to judge me except my ego, and I will not let anything but my heart fullfill my desires. I’d like to write and draw more. Out from the rubble I discovered sketches and poetry. It’s not much, but it will have to do. I am determined to see how beautiful I am, realizing a power in the universe created all the beautiful machines around me that I admire, I was created by the same power, thus, I possess the same structure of astonishment. My personality attracts instantly, it’s only when I begin to doubt myself that others around me doubt who I am. I am worthy of happiness. I am skillfull with a pen that I create atmospheres and extended periods of time. So what poetry isn’t glamour modeling, so what creative fiction isn’t the same craft as photography – a writer has a plathora of versatile tools to sharpen the focus and capture a beautiful moment of the human condition.
I posted some of my art work from the summer 2011. I didn’t draw anything last year, I painfully thought anything I produced was mediocre, stupid, lacked depth and decadence.
I regret this. Depression unleashes catastrophic failures. Here are the remnants of somebody that I used to know.
FROM TOP TO BOTTOM: Underneath My Innocense, Ballerina Stretch, Mr. White from Resevoir Dogs