I say I don't draw anymore. That's a lie. I draw every now and then. A bit less than I used to.
But it isn't art anymore. It's just drawings.
The razorblade picture? I hate it. It's not what was in my head. It's the first time I've tried to draw something - to create art - and I can't look at it and remember what was going through my mind at the time. It's nothing. I wasted blood on a nothing.
And now people added it to their favorites. I want to delete it. But I'm not sure if I could, because if I delete that I'll delete half my gallery. Out of habit I develop attachments to the pictures. People say "you draw?" and I like being able to give them the url and be done with the conversation. Last week some people from high school IMed me and asked if I had any artwork online so they could show someone. It was a quick, easy thing to just give 'em DA and that's that.
What would happen, on DeviantArt, if I were to die? Would it be forgotten, just another archived gallery, with the occasional person who stumbles across it telling me to get back to drawing ML, not realizing I'll never see it? Would someone contact them and say 'hey, she died.'? or would they want to leave it up and just leave a comment or something?
Maybe I should delete the gallery.
I don't feel like being touched. Not even online "*hug*s" and the like. I think I just want to go back to sleep. I slept a lot this week. More than I should have. I'll probably sleep some more this week.
Take art classes, he tells me. Told me. Major in art? they ask. No. I shake my head. No art classes. I'd rather not. I'd rather die. It was the one thing, the only thing when words failed me (or I failed them, it doesn't matter) and my expressions died, all I had. This is my mind. Here. On paper. In pencil, in crayon, in pen, marker, paint, blood. Digital color. Invalid pixels. Your mom's an invalid pixel. That was a photoshop error once. I told Greg that if ever I made an online gallery for myself, I'd want to call it "Invalid Pixels". Such an insignificant little dot, but it's not right. And it fucks everything up. There are marks on my walls - I really ought to clean them - where I've thrown my pencil across the room, enraged because the stupid little writhing image of something in my head isn't making it onto the paper and it isn't working. It. Isn't. Working. And you want me to take this, take whatever semblance of a soul I have, and give it to someone to grade. To carve into what they see fit. To make sure I know I must do this and this, must be able to use this and this, this is how you do that - I know you're never going to use it, but we have to fill classtime somehow - and here, here is your grade.
Am I afraid of failing? Do I know I will? Or do I juts not want to turn myself over and give up this one thing that was wholly mine and that I thought and hoped and prayed could not escape from me?