I'm an avid consumer of art, an appreciator, whatever. I listen, watch, read, and yearn for art, like my body yearns for rest, and my soul yearns for meaning. It's so integral to who I am, to who I want to be. I experience things differently; I can barely recognize my own feelings, as if I'm an empty vessel, waiting and waiting to be filled with something. Art does that for me. I can only feel and understand things when I'm reading/listening/watching. It's weird, isn't it? I can't comprehend my own inner workings without some sort of crutch, without someone telling me what to feel first.
Since I need these things to feel, I also desire to create. To emulate these same feelings in others, to make people feel the same way I do when I experience art. I want to create something that resonates with people, give them something other than mere mindless entertainment. The emptiness being fulfilled.
Often I feel that I lack something essential to create that kind of experience, though.
What my mind creates and what my hands do—there's a gap. Try as I might, I can't recreate the experiences I feel when enjoying the art I love. I can't come close to it nor scratch its surface, no matter how much I claw at it, how much I beg, how much I try to improve. Some say time and practice help, but I'm not that young anymore, and I've been trying for a long time now. So what now? Why can't I move?
I want to believe talent doesn't exist and that, through hard work and consistency, anyone can become great at something. But it's hard, and sometimes it feels like I'm the exception. Worlds move, and I stay here, drowning in mediocrity, becoming resentful of the things I love.
At least I can recognize jealousy. At least I can pretend.
Like I've been doing my whole life.