Last couple weeks I've been having some sort of artistic block. I want to go into my art room and get all of this out of my head, or maybe put a pen to paper and write it out, something....anything... And then there is nothing. Just half thought through ideas, like trying to remember a dream you woke up in the middle of.
My skin feels too small, the room feels too warm, too crowded, I don't know. The monotony of it bears down on me, the stress of trying to fix my mom's house situation, to be "wife', 'mom", "employee', "daughter", "sister', 'student'... to be all things to all people and still have time to be myself. It's exhausting. Sometimes I don't even remember which one is really me, they all are but none of them are.
I want to be protesting. I want to be dancing. I want to be studying. I want to be building things in foreign countries that need things built. I want to be creating. I want to be indulging in the hedonistic pleasures of the flesh. I want to be reading. I want to be able to fix my mom. I want a lot of things. I'm trying to balance the reality of the life I have built against the things I wanted that life to be; and somehow reconcile them in a way that doesn't leave me feeling like I bypassed the things I loved for the safety of things I tolerate because they are 'comfortable'.
Going out of town this week. I think perhaps the change of scenery to someplace I adore will help my frustration. At the very least, there will be good hiking and clam chowder.