It's not that

I'm a writer that suddenly forgot how to write...

Shoot. I'm an artist. Point blank. I'm good at what I do, whether it's painting, shading, or writing poetry. Depending on my level of necessity, I express in different ways.

I may not be able to string together a poem as effortlessly and as potently as I used to, but I've definitely been itching to pick up that brush for a while now. A few days ago, I spit out the most amazing pencil drawing I've done in a very, very long time. It made me hungry for more.

And maybe when I need something bigger, I'll pick up a dance class. I know I have the ability, I just haven't been taught. A few months ago, I realized that I could really, really move; now I am more in tune with my hips and thighs than ever before. Once (if) that realization of self transfers over to the shoulders, I'm going to kill this.

I've been frustrated because I've found myself turned off by all my previous methods of release -- sex, cigarettes, weed, even food -- that I felt I had no more outlet.

Well, shit. Welcome back. Art was the first talent I recognized, the first I dedicated myself to honing. Since elementary school, all the way to my senior year of high school, that was my baby. She's full grown now, and I've had to let her go for a while. I had affairs, I dove into other forms of expression to replace her, but I think it ultimately comes back to this. Theres a comfort that settles over me when I drown myself into a drawing. It's like...

Well, it's like coming home.