I am an artist

there's no doubt in my mind anymore

I am an artist. 
okay I'm gonna cry already. 

I'm sitting here with a hot water bottle on my belly, period cramps, and a history of a very intense month behind me. yeah, hopefully behind me. 

I can do this. 

I am an artist. 
I never felt deserving of this title. 
I always felt I wasn't romantic enough.
I wasn't a bohemian singer-songwriter 
who thinks sadness is her power and
sensitivity is her gift,
someone who turns an emotion 
into a beautiful piece of art
that will outlive her.  

I always felt I wasn't good enough. 

I thought geniuses are born,
not made.
I thought the way I experienced love,
the way I ran away from a mum 
with undiagnosed mental issues, 
and how I made myself miserable 
for a guy that looks like Julian Casablancas, 
wasn't enough to sing about. 

I am an artist. 
what a magical statement. 

that doesn't sound like me though.
I'm not that confident, that bold. 
that girl who makes people uncomfortable 
when she walks into a room. 
whose existence triggers people 
from how deeply in love she is with life, 
how confidently she writes 
and shares her writing. 

vulnerability is sexy, 
and I never felt sexy. 
making bad art is so bold, 
and I never felt like I was bold.

believing in yourself takes courage, 
and I don't know if I'm brave yet. 

lying on the grass of my garden, 
I feel like I'm part of the universe,
but I don't belong in this city, 
and I don't know if the word artist belongs to me. 

still, I know that I could never lose myself,
as long as I can translate 
what I feel into a piece of writing, a song, a dance.

sometimes I think being an artist 
is delusional and dumb. 
it hurts but it's what I've been taught. 

so I'm gonna reframe it,
deep in my heart I think being an artist is hot. 

I really need to hear this now, 
while my half-brother drives me home
and suggests I should be an english teacher. 
while I'm in the elevator and a neighbor 
asks if I'm making money yet. 
while my dearest friends call this a phase. 

being an artist is so hot.

but I runaway from it, 
ashamed of asking for attention,
of living a life of pure joy and meaning. 

scared of my inner world 
and the endless reflections,
that would sometimes leave me feeling empty,
disconnected from nature, 
and everything I have always loved.

I felt like no matter how many times 
I stopped in the middle of the street to 
write an idea, 
sat in my pyjamas alone in my apartment,
singing and praying no one would come home 
so I could sing out of tune;
no matter how often I felt understood only by my journal, 
and how I felt changed by art, 
and my inner world blooming in the pages,

I still didn't feel like an artist. 

even though I have had issues with over romanticizing 
music in my life, 
I still think I can objectively say that I was changed by art. 

the most romantic times in my life 
were swimming in the sea with my granny 
and learning how to play guitar. 
the middle was just a filler, 
a transition, 
from meaningful to confusing, 
to meaningful again.

it wasn't romantic in the way we think about it now. 
I wasn't sitting on an expensive piano, 
handwriting lyrics with ink on hand-made paper, 
putting up an altar of dried flowers,
wearing a cute patterned dress, 
and lighting a few candles to set the mood.

I wasn't being witnessed by proud adults 
at the dinner table, 
clapping after discovering my talents. 
I wasn't kissed, hugged, given validation, 
or told I was special. 

so I said it to myself:

you're doing so good, 
I promise. 

even though I didn't write in the most 
aesthetically pleasing room, 
or with the support and admiration of others,
it was still romantic to me, 
in the sense that I could see romance 
in everything.

from the most boring parts of the outskirts of Dublin, 
to the goosebumps in my stomach 
and the shadows of my pain, 

I saw romance everywhere. 

and when I started to heal, 
truly heal, 
I saw romance in that too. 

I wasn't being witnessed, 
or chosen,
I wasn't the girl taking out her guitar 
and singing in front of an audience,

I was so shy I could puke. 

but locking myself in my room 
to play guitar,
I thought that was the most romantic thing 
I had ever done,
in my entire life.

I never wore baggy jeans, a vintage belt, 
or piercings.
I was never brave enough to get a tattoo, 
and I never spent time making my makeup look artistic. 

everyone in Dublin looked artistic.
blue eyeliner, small roses painted 
on the side of their faces, 
dyed hair and cute fringes.

but I just didn't look like an artist. 

I look back 
at me walking in the park next to our house in the suburbs, 
trying to find meaning in everything I saw.
a small local burger place, 
some leaves that look green despite the winter,
an old lady sitting on a bench observing the blue sky
turn black.
I was wearing whatever I could find in my wardrobe. 
too tired to pick a cool outfit,
too tired to put on makeup,
too tired to go running,
which I said I'd do by the way.

too tired to be an aesthetic. 

now I look back 
and with all certainty, 
and peace of mind, 

I know that girl was an artist. 

it's not about how it looks. 
the handwritten poetry, 
self-made dresses, 
country living, 
vintage clothes. 

it's not about  
knowing how to pose for photos, 
being loud and confident, 
mysterious and bohemian. 

being an artist doesn't have to look like anything. 

being an artist is the drive to write what you see,
trying to understand the magical, crazy, bubble we live in.
making it meaningful,
connecting with something deeper. 

I know some questions can only be answered with art. 
and that being an artist 
somehow is a little like having a romantic relationship with life.

I want to share a bath with life,
hold hands, 
watch the sunset together,  
and ask her questions. 

I want to go on a romantic dinner to Sicily with her 
and ask her everything. 

being an artist is about asking questions.

why am I here?
I'm still writing, singing, painting about it. 
I'm still dancing to this question, 
in my messy living room 
filled with paintings that haven't been hung up yet.
I'm still in that era of moving in and out of places, 
trying to find my little corner in the world. 

I think maybe my little corner is wherever I'm writing and dancing to Sade. 

reflections in the mountains

I drove thirty minutes to these mountains, 
calculated the time a bit badly so now it's dark, 
I do that, don't I?
always late to places.
I just feel quite tired lately,
I can't seem to make my body do things, 
force myself to get up, 
get a jacket, 
car keys, 
go to the garage, 
be careful with careless drivers, 
then have to deal with the cold in october.

but I did and now I'm here, 
in the mountains at night. 

I am an artist, 

I can type it but I can't say it out loud. 

why can't I say it?
scream it even.
have everyone hear me and give me the look, 
have everyone judge me for it if they want to.

I
am
an
artist 

I walk around, it's freezing, 
but it's okay. 
the past four years have been a complete mess. 
a four-year concussion,
a trance where I couldn't recognise myself. 

what happened to her?

what happened to the happy, dreamy, delusional 
little me?

I asked the mountains, 
sometimes it's better to get their perspective on things. 

it's a very awkward sensation, 
to feel yourself changing. 
you're in the same body 
but the feeling of you is gone, 
the familiarity, 
the inside jokes, 
the comfortable silence. 

it's all gone. 

you look in the mirror, 
there's this new person, 
waving at you.
you have to give them a chance, 
go on a little date together, 
share a milkshake,
see if you get along. 

maybe I could give myself a chance,
maybe I could learn to like her. 

I look at the city, 
I love to see the lights from up here. 

they sparkle.

I start writing a song out loud, 
as thoughts of the past come up.

no one was ever curious about my art. 
no one ever came to a gig,
asked me to sing at family dinners. 
no one gave me the chance I was looking for, 
the permission I wanted to call myself an artist. 

right now I'm the only one who says it, 
I whisper it, 
but I say it.

and that's all I need. 

I think I didn't fully believe in myself. 
I wasn't really there yet.

I imagined how people would perceive me.
is she so delusional she thinks she's an actual artist?

after these nightmarish four years,
I'm back here, 
in my hometown 
which I don't hate anymore,
and as I welcome the new me, 
I look at the night sky and wonder,  

is this me giving up?

this pursuing your dream kinda thing 
hasn't really worked out, has it?

I close my eyes.
I don't think I was going after what I truly wanted. 
I said I was a guitar player, 
I could write for other people, 
I could do marketing for other people. 

always other people. 

I could never be like these city lights, 
shining bright, 
sparkling.

I could never shine like that.

but I can't just give up, 
just cause things didn't go how I intended. 
just cause life happened and I didn't know
how to ride the waves, 

I wasn't taught how to. 

just cause I kept falling and failing and everyone saw.

it was one thing to deal with failure, 
and another, 
to deal with how others handled and perceived my failure. 

they didn't handle it very well. 

at eighteen I found myself alone. 
had to pretend I was this
confident, put-together, go-getter girl 
who didn't care about her past, 
who didn't let herself grief, 
who was going to prove everyone wrong. 

I don't need to prove anyone anything.

I lean against the car and I sing to myself,
if I could give myself a second chance, 
I would.

I look at the city lights again. 

maybe now is the time. 

I shed a tear and I say it out loud for the first time ever in my life,

I am a little bit of an artist, aren't I?

village of eleven people

I finished college and quit my job, 
then moved to a village of eleven people. 

trying to be an artist on your day off is hard. 
12h shifts don't leave much time to feel inspired.
when you get home, 
you just want to watch TV and be proud of yourself, 
look at you,
you're a real adult working and making money.

I was very tired. 

the suit looked really bad on me and
I had to spend a lot of time standing up. 
anytime we would sit down, 
the boss would come and say, 
come on stand up, 
it has to look good for the customers. 

I was really bad at carrying a tray, 
it was embarrassing, 
but it's okay.
I found a way to make it fun, 
tried to steal the chips, 
see how many I could eat without getting caught. 

then I would write lyrics in the bathroom. 
get home and finish writing on a piano my old roommate gave me. 

I hate this job and I hate this city. 
I would write something like that but more poetic. 

still, I felt too tired. 

I now understand that all that time, 
I didn't see myself as an artist.

in that 7am shift, 
one hour drive into this town on the east of Dublin, 
with just a few houses and a mall,
I remember thinking
if I don't romanticize this,
if I don't find something meaningful in this, 
I don't know how I can keep going. 
if I don't write or sing about it, 
I don't know how it can be bearable. 

in an early morning on a crowded bus,
on your way to a job you hate, 
it's very easy to forget 
that there'so much beauty in life.

it's easy to forget. 

but art did that for me. 
art helped me remember. 

I didn't think I was an artist,
but the other day the mountains spoke to me, 
they screamed back at me: 

you have always been an artist and you 
always will be. 

so I finally listened. 

I moved to that village for three months,
to let myself be an artist, 
this time embrace it, 
see what I could do if I let myself shine,
if I took that spark I knew I had and let 
it blind me, 
love is blind anyway, 
and I want it to do that to me.
instead of keeping it down, 
out of fear, 
like I always have.

it felt good. 
to speak about the past 
in a different way.
I wasn't so angry anymore,
I wasn't upset,
I was letting the words flow 
in a way I hadn't before. 

I saw my new neighbor on my evening walk, 
she said why did you come here, 
I said 
I'm an artist, I'm making art about the trees and the mountains and the past.

1 year anniversary of feeling like an artist

happy anniversary to me.
I did it, 
I am an artist.
I can squeeze that sentence into conversations sometimes. 
although my self-critical side always gives a note:
well, not actually an artist, 
I don't really pay attention anymore, 
it just flows.

living is an art and I am the artist. 

every time I write, 
I think I like myself a little more. 
I don't see myself through the eyes of others.
that old friend from high-school,
that hot guy I knew who looks like Julian Casablancas,
my dad who I haven't spoken in three years.

I see myself. 
no one else. 

writing feels like home. 
getting off a plane and having my mum's friend 
drive me in her blue van. 
eating different kinds of ham and cheese 
without a diet in mind.
sleeping in my childhood room once again, 
with all the posters of music I used to like.

it reminds me of my granny 
taking me to the beach every single day. 
she's right there with me. 
on her blue bathing suit, 
standing still in the sea, 
two feet in, 
peaceful. 

I think the sea was her art. 
she used the sea to reflect on her life, 
just like I use writing as my roadmap.

we both had our ways to understand the world.

she lost a son, 
a brother, 
a companion, 
the cafe she owned. 
she lost everything, 
yet she never lost herself. 

I was always so inspired, 
sitting on my wrinkly towel 
looking at her silhouette. 
she really shined, 
she was herself. 

she was art.
and perhaps the sea was the seed for her strenght. 

I'm walking on a wooden path by the coast,
searching for the key to happiness on the internet, 
and realise
that I can gather lessons from the horizon, 
it sits there peaceful, 
sure of itself,
it shines. 
I feel really weird thinking this 
but maybe I can shine too, 
maybe I can let myself have fun, 
express my feelings.

shine,
just like my granny. 
and the city lights.

I want to turn her memory into art too. 
I want to make things meaningful 
so this life can be lived 
with grace and fulfillment. 

I know I deserve to be here, 
no one can say these words like I do. 
and no one could look at the sea, 
the way my granny did. 

I'm gonna make people uncomfortable. 
and I'm gonna fall in love with life, 
this time deeper, 

I have to give myself a chance.

I'm gonna do it all this time, 
and I'm gonna sing about it.
I don't care if it's out of tune, 
I really don't care anymore. 

I'm making art.