one of the earliest pieces of artwork that I still have in my posession, circa 1997

I remember what it felt like when I used to draw or color years ago, when I was a child becoming a teenager.

It felt so safe, so right, and so very much fun.

I was always interested in improving my skills, but I wasn’t over self-conscious of my art yet - I was just happy to be making something.

But then I started getting into trouble with my parents because of my artwork, and from then on my artistic habits changed forever. They taught me to hate myself and my artwork. I was no longer free to create during a very crucial interval of my life. And I would rather have died than be like what they wanted me to be.

They wanted me to be just like them.

I remember making art, unfettered, long ago. It was wonderful. Especially when I had a best friend with which to share the activity. Our creativity multiplied exponentially when we joyously created together. But my parents became jealous, and they severed our relationship.

Years later, I severed my relationship and all contact with my parents. And you know what? My life and my psyche have improved significantly ever since. I’ve lost many battles, but I won that psychic war.

But these days, I am still healing old wounds like these. I am trying to remember what it felt like to create as a free person without any shame to be experienced for miles around.

I am still trying to get my mojo back. I still have it with me, but it is still largely dormant. It is like a firework that has been lit but has not burst yet. And here I am waiting for the pop...