I love art, I’m an 100% art person, but i don’t want to get deeper meanings of drawings or paintings , old and new. I’m not sure I want to listen to the piano play and watch people dance to the sound; that scene reminds me of something from an horror movie, not like you would catch me watching that. I’d go to a museum for the feel of it, not because I care about the old stories; I might ask a few questions, but honestly, I don’t care about the stories, not in the bad way though, I can’t explain. I’d like to visit the art gallery multiple times, to take pictures beside beautiful works of art as though they related to me, not because I get it, not because I want a deep reflection, but just because it’s art. Old and new works of art such as paintings, are triggers, I’m not sure what they trigger in me, but it’s highly uncomfortable. There’s no word to explain how I feel. Yet i feel drawn to it, that’s why I can visit the an art gallery more times than I’d go to the movies.

Writing is art . My writings are my creations. Sometimes , the words I write scare me. When I read my old journals, old articles, random old stuff that I wrote, articles about the things I felt so deeply once upon a time , notes on things I didn’t feel strongly about, there are goosebumps . It’s one of the reasons why I hate old books. The fact that truth captured in that moment may have turned out to be a lie eventually is sickening . It’s in these moments I feel the downside of being an hoarder ; can’t let those old books/writing go , but I don’t want anything to do with them. I have a phobia for libraries,such a weird place, and name too. I like to think my mind is different . Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m creeping you out, maybe I’m not. You probably get me, you most likely think I’m crazy.

That being said, if I had a canvas and a lot of paint , I’d probably be the sickest artist to live. I’d paint out the most complicated form of art, which is my mind, but in doing so would be the death of me, giving you all I have till nothing is left. When it’s time, give me a canvas, paints of every kind and brushes. I’d create,my very last piece.


That’s an old article by the way, and yes it gave me chills . In summary , I’m not clear on what it means, I’m just a writer who thinks about a lot of stuff, an human being with different personalities , and right now I feel like like an old person with grey hair, and at the same time, I feel like a teenager on molly.

Iyanuoluwa .


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