“You are not as adventurous as you were last year.”
I am not a lot of things anymore, and I do not know how to cope with my lack of motivation, or desire to contribute to society in a meaningful way. I feel my naive sophomore self would be disappointed in my junior self. I no longer have this yearning to want to know myself, I no longer am curious to identify myself. I feel I am undeserving of any title, any name, or any artistic position. I sought to be an artist last year, or at least identity myself as one till recently. My uncertainty is beginning to settle in and my nervousness demeanor is nestling its way back into the crevices of my being. I am torn between doing what I would like to do and what I am capable of doing. I am torn between not knowing what I truly enjoy anymore and I am torn between pursuing something that I think I enjoy. My uncertainty has allowed me to jump to the idea that I want to be an artist, that I want to achieve in the artistic world. My uncertainty has found comfort in this childish dream that all I want is to be an artist. I have spent months dwelling on whether I was worthy enough to deem myself an artist. I wrote blogposts as well, and had conversations I thought were insightful, but now I worry I have only chosen art because it is all I know. I have never pursued anything but art, and the thought of not knowing if it is my actual passion or want is what terrifies me most.
In the previous blogpost, I was assigned to write about my future. I began to write a completely different lifestyle than what I had imagined. I wrote that I was a dermatologist. I figured I would be useful to society, cure the youth of unwanted flaws. I figured I would be content or at least satisfied.Through this assignment, I was instantly dissatisfied with this lifestyle. felt disappointed in myself for writing about something other than art. So, I began to write about art instead. I wrote that I had a simple lifestyle, woke in the morning to an empty canvas, and fell asleep to completely full and vibrant work of art. Though cliche and lame, I found comfort in. I don’t know if art is a comfort to fall back on or my passion. I am too fearful to pursue something otherwise. I do not want to do art if this is the reason. I am not sure if I am passionate about. I am not sure about anything anymore really. I am not adventurous, and I am not anything. Maybe this feeling is temporary. Hopefully this feeling will fade, but for now I am caught somewhere in the middle.