<h6>“Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone.”</h6>
Alan Wilson Watts
I sit with the brush in one hand! Yes! I know I have the talent! Yes the last painting I painted was sold at an “astronomical” price. But that was 20 years ago! Am I still a talent? Am I still a painter? Can the next painting catch more money than the first one? I think, while the paint is dripping from the brush. And then I realize that the morning light has gone, the shadows have grown up, and for another day I cannot draw as I would like, with the colours, the lighting, the shades I would like.
“Well, this is not the end of the world, I think. Tomorrow is another day! ”
What I can not realize that moment is that this is a typical day for 20 years, waiting for something, worrying about something, hoping for something, but without doing anything to design, create, express myself.
For 20 years I have been a painter. I live in an illusion. I plan for a future that does not come and I forget to live the present. I forget to express myself, to proceed to a “frenzy” of creation, to “devour” every moment given to me, to “drain” every gram of my mind, so simply because I can. Just because I like it. No more expectations. No other plans. To live the moment, free from criticism, advice, characterization. To live the moment for me and to discover myself along the way.