For months now I've been having minor to major panic attacks about the hard fact of life: death. My own end. Losing touch with the world. The unknown. It was horribly depressing because it was constant (at least 2 or 3 times a day), like some heavy shadow riding my shoulders and making it difficult to enjoy living. I couldn't shake it and I thought I'd be cursed to live out the rest of my life like this. .. filled with dread.


Strangely enough, the other day I was driving by this building that used to be a print store. When I was 13 and 14, I used to walk by it all the time with my then friend, Jen. I used to dream of one day having art prints and photo prints worthy of hanging. I wanted to be a real artist. I always wanted to go in and find out prices and what sort of things they did, but I never had the courage.
The store closed years ago, and now it's some commercial crap... but it made me remember.
And in remembering, and then realizing that my apartment is chock full of my own artwork hanging up on the walls, and large framed prints of my photographs... the weight lifted.

I cried.

I am an artist. I always have been. I always will be. My life revolves around the simple act of creating, and I am becoming more aware, more skilled, and more courageous.

My love of beauty, of creativity, of sharing - it will keep me breathing. It will keep me free.

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Photography Modeling Stock