Two Years Plus

Wow, it's been over two years since I started PRE. That's really odd to me. It doesn't feel like it's been two years. As a matter of fact, PRE was my second blogging endeavor, so it's been much more than two years since I entered the blogging world. Crazy, man, crazy.

I'm not as artsy as I used to be. I mean, on this blog. Actually, if I had to be honest, I'm probably not as artsy in real life, either. That's kind of sad. It's not that it takes much more time to be a little more creative, it's just that it takes just enough more time that I don't care to put the effort in to it.

I used to draw. With chalk. Not on sidewalks, although I did enough of that around my college campus in an effort to advertise events. But what I'm talking about is taking art chalks/pastels and a large sheet of paper and making something out of nothing. In college, actually, I wanted to decorate my room but didn't want to just buy posters of random things to put up, so I made my own. I took posterboard and old posters and covered them with pictures and phrases that inspired me. When I left college I left them behind.

Sometimes I feel when I left college I left too much behind. Granted, there are some pieces of immaturity that I was wont to leave-- thrift store chic can only get you so far in life before you have to "grow up." Even more so, thrift store chic mentality can only get you so far in life before you have to grow up.

I didn't think the chalk posters would wear well on the trek. And, honestly, I wouldn't have put them up again-- they aren't "me" any more. But sometimes I look at my chalks and I miss sitting on the hardwood floor of my little college apartment, music blaring, hands covered in color, art forming in front of me.

Today my artistic side tends to express itself most in fashion-- clothing, accessories, makeup. Especially makeup. It's the reason I'm a makeup addict, actually. I don't wear gobs and gobs of it, but I love the idea of creating with it. Makeup is an artistic outlet for me. I go into stores and before I know it, my hands are covered with shades like when I sat on that hardwood floor. Sitting in front of my mirror, I play and watch art form on the canvas that is my face.

And then I wash it away. I don't put it on my wall or save it in a scrap book. I watch it swirl down the drain or smear across my towel. So it is with my creativity these days. It is not so much documented here or in some journal, as it is painted into a flourish in my mind at night, only to be washed down the drain of forgetfulness by the maiden sleep. And what a detergent she is, for she leaves no trace of the masterpiece, save for a line or two smeared across my mind, a haunting residue of the art that was.