sometimes i wish i was artistic.
like visually artistic.
i want to draw, paint, sculpt, design, just… make.
i want to create something that feels beautiful and alive. something that makes people stop and go, “oh.”
my drawings look like they’re trying their best but also maybe having an existential crisis. my paintings end up muddy. my attempts at design? they live somewhere between “avant-garde” and “emotionally chaotic”. Its all this chaotic bursts that never quite make it out of my head the way i imagine them.
but i try.
because i believe in bad art.
i believe in the art that doesn’t come out right. the art you hide for a week and then find again and think, actually… maybe she’s kind of cute. creating just because you want to
not everyone is a michelangelo, and not everyone needs to be.
the thing is, i love art.
i love looking at it, being around it, feeling like i’m part of it somehow. i love museums — the hush, the colors, the way people stare at brushstrokes like they’re deciphering secrets. i love fashion, too — the artistry of it. i watch runway shows the way some people watch sports. i’m subscribed to fashion magazines. i analyze silhouettes, fabrics, collections. i love how designers turn emotions into clothing.
one of my exes used to criticize my photography.
and i let him.
i had two canon cameras i adored, and i used to take pictures everywhere — sunlight on the wall, hands, reflections in windows, the way coffee looked when it caught the light. but after enough criticism, i stopped. i sold the cameras.
and it’s so strange how easy it is to let someone convince you your way of seeing the world isn’t worth documenting.
i used to bake, too.
crochet.
read too many books at once.
i still love those things, even when i forget to make time for them. i think all of that is a kind of art, too — quiet art. the kind that doesn’t hang on a wall but still fills a space with warmth.
and i guess that’s what somepunnybunny is for me now.
it’s my way of still making something, even if it’s just with words. it’s the colors of my thoughts, the patterns of my feelings, the crumbs of everything i’ve loved and lost and still hope to become.
so maybe i don’t draw or paint or sculpt anymore.
maybe i just write.
maybe that’s my medium.
but it’s not my end all, be all.
i want to write books.
stories that live longer than a post. stories that feel like warm light, like real people, like something someone might underline because it made them feel seen.
so maybe i don’t draw or paint or sculpt.
but i write.
and i notice.
and i keep loving things deeply enough to want to make something out of the
