People around me associated my art with sadness and it didn't sound as bad back then as it does now. It used to be ~I'm a sad young person with a lot of rage inside~ but the sadness faded away by the time, leaving rage as it is. The sadness didn't replace itself with anything. The heartbreaks I had been writing/drawing about stayed the same, they just didn't matter anymore. And I need to fill that space.
It's just that your art asks for a goddamn price and you are to pay it even if you don't want to, even if you don't even know you're paying it until it actually becomes a routine.
And I don't want to pay it with heartbreaks and sadness anymore, even though some of my best pieces came into existence when I was blue. You see, I want to replace it with madness. But I have trouble being anything whole, I told you I was always a middle product of the emotional state I was in, I was never mad enough, not that I didn't try.
The world has seen insane artists who exploded into colors and art, they changed the world. And I've seen my favorite people turning insane over their art. My twin introduced The 1975 band to me just a few days ago and Matt Healy broke me into so many pieces I had to sit down and collect my existence back and glue it together again. Not that his drug addiction and medically approved insanity saddened me, but what hit me hard is that he is goddamn glorious at his art. I was jealous and then I burst into a good good good laugh, I want to pay the price.
I realized I wasn't Matty Healy who has lost his mind but has his music. I wasn't Van Gogh who ate yellow paint for his happiness. I wasn't even Johnny Depp who is a piece-of-shit-insane but a goddamn living legend.
I'm Areeba who just can't shut up.