Please critique in any way
Tell us about a personal quality, talent, accomplishment, contribution or experience that is important to you. What about this quality or accomplishment makes you proud, and how does it relate to the person you are? *
I can sit in front of a piece of paper for hours at a time, my gaze boring holes into the pristine white. I sit there, with that piece of paper, and just let time flow around me. I'm desperate for inspiration, my mind begs me to start, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
I guess I could be considered an artist - with words, with images, with sounds. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music. But at the moment, I'm not. I'm not an artist, for what is an artist without imagination, without inspiration? I look at that piece of paper, and decide that I'm going to write, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
My mind wanders, and I don't know how much time has passed. I could be doing so much more, homework, chores, or just resting, but I'm so fixated on this blank page, I can't pull away. So I sit, tut-tutting away with my pen. Finally, I place the nib, so that the soft tip caresses the page, but then I pull back. I try to snap out of my lull, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
Time's running out, and it's now dark outside. I look at this blank sheet, and think, "What is this even for?" I realize that I don't even spend this much time studying or doing homework. Why is it that I'll spend this much time, attempting to create something that isn't worth anything? I think I know what to do.
It's nearly two in the morning, and I have spent nearly half a day, secluded in my room, locked away from the world. Only the soft murmur of my dog's breath beside me keeps me tied to reality. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music, all for a reason. I don't need to prove anything to anyone when I do those. When I spend my time, delving deep into the arts, I try my hardest, I become a perfectionist. Why? Because I can. There is no physical value to my fervor, but my expression is everything to me. I know what to do.
The sun begins to rise, and my paper is no longer blank. Words and pictures, an opus of my mind and soul has etched itself onto the paper. My thoughts and emotions, no longer held by a reservoir of my heart, splash onto the canvas. I have spent an eternity on this piece, and I don't know what to do with it. Maybe I'll keep it, frame it. Or perhaps I'll burn it. It would make a great fire.
I guess many people think I have my priorities wrong, to spend so much time on something so trivial. But I know that when my inspiration comes, I would stop everything else. I can make-up my AP Biology homework, I can apologize for cutting a conversation short with my parents, but if I prolong inspiration, it will fade away and never be replaced. This is what I do.
Tell us about a personal quality, talent, accomplishment, contribution or experience that is important to you. What about this quality or accomplishment makes you proud, and how does it relate to the person you are? *
I can sit in front of a piece of paper for hours at a time, my gaze boring holes into the pristine white. I sit there, with that piece of paper, and just let time flow around me. I'm desperate for inspiration, my mind begs me to start, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
I guess I could be considered an artist - with words, with images, with sounds. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music. But at the moment, I'm not. I'm not an artist, for what is an artist without imagination, without inspiration? I look at that piece of paper, and decide that I'm going to write, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
My mind wanders, and I don't know how much time has passed. I could be doing so much more, homework, chores, or just resting, but I'm so fixated on this blank page, I can't pull away. So I sit, tut-tutting away with my pen. Finally, I place the nib, so that the soft tip caresses the page, but then I pull back. I try to snap out of my lull, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
Time's running out, and it's now dark outside. I look at this blank sheet, and think, "What is this even for?" I realize that I don't even spend this much time studying or doing homework. Why is it that I'll spend this much time, attempting to create something that isn't worth anything? I think I know what to do.
It's nearly two in the morning, and I have spent nearly half a day, secluded in my room, locked away from the world. Only the soft murmur of my dog's breath beside me keeps me tied to reality. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music, all for a reason. I don't need to prove anything to anyone when I do those. When I spend my time, delving deep into the arts, I try my hardest, I become a perfectionist. Why? Because I can. There is no physical value to my fervor, but my expression is everything to me. I know what to do.
The sun begins to rise, and my paper is no longer blank. Words and pictures, an opus of my mind and soul has etched itself onto the paper. My thoughts and emotions, no longer held by a reservoir of my heart, splash onto the canvas. I have spent an eternity on this piece, and I don't know what to do with it. Maybe I'll keep it, frame it. Or perhaps I'll burn it. It would make a great fire.
I guess many people think I have my priorities wrong, to spend so much time on something so trivial. But I know that when my inspiration comes, I would stop everything else. I can make-up my AP Biology homework, I can apologize for cutting a conversation short with my parents, but if I prolong inspiration, it will fade away and never be replaced. This is what I do.