I keep looking at the drawing I did of Oriya about a year ago, wondering how it was accomplished. I miss art. Visual, tangible art. Acting is a release of another sort, writing is become another one, but I miss the colors and textures and eraser streaks from crappy pencils that I've had for too long.

I've been so overbooked lately, what with rehearsals and make-up work, attempting to start calligraphy again, reading for my personal pleasure again....

I'm making excuses, but they are valid. But part of me wants to kick myself for failing at art. Is it really a possesion for me? Sometimes I just feel right, the art feels right, the line gets out somehow or the colors suprise me by doing more than obeying.

I have sketches, marker tests and moods. I don't have a scanner. Pictures, maybe? I'm feeling daring. I'll put them up. At some point, sometime soon, just to prove I haven't failed, I haven't given up.

I've started an actual journal. Something that won't be deleted by hackers, or erased by a virus, or hidden and forgotten. It's still not honest enough for my liking, but I live in a house with four people who wouldn't mind finding it. So it goes. But I'm starting to analyze myself in a different way. It's a good thing.

It hurts to type. I bent my pinkie backwards while my hands were full of books and dance clothes trying to catch the door. Every time I hit the 'A' it throbs a bit. I think I'll stop. Not to mention my brother is looming over my shoulder and attacking the deviantart button.
Wouldn't want that, would I.