i hold strong passion in art. every aspect of it. the gluing, the cutting, the drawing, the painting, the constructing. the smoothness of the graphite gliding across the paper. everything i see turns into a painting, my mind constructing the lines of the paint brush onto my physical surroundings; a single moment, an individual i find beautiful, a place i want to keep in mind. all i want to do is create create create. and i guess thats all i do in my mind. the only problem is that i hold no motivation. all of my motivation slipped out of my fingers just a couple years ago, theres no chasing it. ive tried, ive tried, everyday i try to find some motivation. maybe its flipping through my aunt's vincent van gogh book or even as simple as writing my own name. all of my ideas crammed inside my head, i fail to translate. and when i do translate it i find myself forcing myself to continue, forcing my self to enjoy it even. "you are an incredible artist, mandy, never give up on your art," i hear the voices of my family members say to me at my grandma's funeral. i want to scream at them right in the face saying, "do you know what its like to live with a mental illness? struggling to find motivation to even leave the house in the morning?" but instead i simply smile at them. i thank them before walking away. today, my mom told me that i need to finish my painting before next week so i have time to submit it. everything in me wants to finish that painting but at the same time everything in me is completely and utterly dreading it. i can stop the procrastination of my own passion. across the room i see empty canvas laying in front of me. i feel that it is screaming at me. screaming at me to do something, anything. i sit in solitude every morning thinking to myself, "today i will paint," until it comes to around 6 pm and i have made no attempt to paint that day. today i walked down to the creek somewhere in the woods in my back yard, holding a box of old magazines, art supplies, my journal and my camera. i sat at the riparian and started to freely create. i wrote about my day, my month, my year. cutting out flowers from the magazines, gluing them down along with a pair of pretty blue eyes. even from the scintilla of work i did, i felt satisfied, i felt free. i didnt feel forced. art has always been a very personal thing to me, it has made a very strong impact on my life. being a member of a family with a long line of artists is a struggle. everyone is very expecting. expecting of me to have an extravagant new painting every time i see them or new sketches. but lately metanoia has leapt up and drove its teeth into the flesh of my neck. i want to drive myself on the path of coming to terms with the fear that stands between myself and my mental health. there is nothing i want to do more than to just freely create and construct and be proactive. ive realized that art is something that i should want to do, not feel forced to do.