Why I am not an artistic person

I am not an artistic person. I lack the creative skills and focus to paint the same color in different shades over and over again. I lack the patience it takes to bend wire and clay and breath life into a new sculpture. Pencils and markers frustrate me because they smudge, and every single sketch I make I throw into the trash can. I don’t have the determination or the drive to finish a new project. Months fly by before I manage to finish one drawing. Photography does nothing for me, and my pictures always turn out to be blurry and gray.

Art hurts me. It takes my hands and warps them into something ugly and rough. After working with wire, I am covered in blisters. After spending 8 grueling hours painting, my fingers and my face are smeared with slimy paint. Art engulfs me and intrudes in my personal space. It finds a home in my hair, on my pants, between my fingers, and even somehow finds it’s way to my face. It curls up and finds a home in my personal bubble. I hate how it takes me captive. I am not meant for it, but it is meant for me.