I have such an urge to sit down with a large sheet of drawing paper, a few drawing pencils (Not of varying hardnesses or anything, I draw with a 2B, always have), a pencil sharpner, an eraser, and draw for a long time. For two or threes hours, draw lines, shade, and highlight, create a spontaneous drawing, imagined on the spur of the moment and unplanned, as I used to do in high school, when I was in art class. Out of everything from my past, that is what I miss the most: an hour or two devoted, entirely, to sitting in an art studio and working on art, uninhibited and with free access to a variety of materials and mediums, each and every day.
However, right now, as though it were a reflection of my life, my surroundings are simply too cluttered and cramped to allow me the room to spread out and draw without having to spend thirty minutes, beforehand, cleaning and organizing. I, somewhat, want to go to campus, but that limits my access to materials and conveniences, plus would provide a distraction or two or fourty, no doubt.
So, I'm just substituting writing for drawing, like I have been doing for... Well, a long time, now, I suppose, maybe six months. At one time, I was a prolific artist, producing, at minimum, one work a week, every week. Now? I don't believe I have done more than five complete, finished works of art in the past two semesters of college. I am hopeful that, next semester, when I'm actually in a studio art class that I will, ideally, get back to my old level of artistic satisfaction in the venue of drawing or whatnot.
I enjoy writing and take an amount of satisfaction from it, but it's never the same as visual arts, for me. A drawing is a focus I can concentrate on for hours without trying or exerting effort; I'm content to shade, draw, paint, smear, or whatever for hours on end, without thinking about the length of time or amount of work I've gotten done. Writing, on the other hand, has never been a subject I can stay persistent on, hence why I usually produce short but dense poetry. After an hour or two of writing, it is common for my train of thought or central idea to derail, and I slowly degenerate exponentially towards rambling without a tether to any stable ground. A perfect demonstration of that happening would be this Blogspot, where I try to keep a thesis and main idea going and not lose sight of those, but tend to just truncate my entries before concluding completely.
Oh, well, that's just something I've noticed about myself over the years, but is really irrelevant and dismissable, truthfully...
In the same manner that my natural environment seems to be affected directly by how my life is going, the weather seems to be flowing along in the same tides as my emotions. Of course, astrologers or other mystics would probably inform me it would be the vice versa case, where my emotions are shifted by the weather, but... Well, I wouldn't argue that, as I can't, technically, disprove that, being my emotions have been unpredictably rising and falling, but I don't like the taste of it. Last week, the temperatures were becoming higher and higher, and my mood was in high spirits, as well, but, then, yesterday a rainstorm came through, and I've been a bit more mellow and apathetic. Yesterday, I was standing by someone and talking, gazing upward, past the building looming before me, at the skies, which were rumbling and brewing with rainclouds, dark and grey, foreboding and harkening for the wilder spirits to be let loose. I could not help but relate to that state, one vergining on a grand release of tremendous force, but only in the preparation stages, pending a trigger or cue enabling it to proceed...
It sort of fits, and I love this quote, so I think I'll put it here:
Quote of the Moment: "...Then, you wake up one morning, and it's the grayest day of the year, and you just think, 'Hey, maybe I'll take a razor blade and slit my wrists so I could see some colour!'" - Lewis (Louis?) Black.
Actually, my state of being has been more consistent with who I've seen and what I've been doing lately than the weather, which I, personally, find a more likely explanation. Eh, but that doesn't make it sound as profound, I suppose. Soon, the semester will be oever, my freshman year of college completed, successful and a failure to me, an advancement and detriment. Such is life, I guess: one, never-ending trudge towards death, simultaneously attuned to a constant, trying climb towards an unknown height that summons you forth, despite the ease it would be to lay down and remain on the same level, always.

Adios.

Currently Playing Song: Nomeansno - State of Grace.