I long desperately to draw, or rather to be able to draw. To pick up a ridiculously short pencil and take it to paper and create perfectly shaded, perfectly expressed art. I was thinking about this just now while pondering the classic question that runs "if you could wish for anything in the world, what would it be?" In all honesty, it's extremely unlikely that I'd be able to jump to drawing, or jump to it immediately, anyway. After all, there are all sorts of great things that can be done with an unlimited wish, but in the end I'd probably conclude as I'm doing now that anything that I wished for that would effect other people would likely cause more harm than I could ever imagine.
But how it would be to draw! To say "I have fifty minutes in this study hall. Just enough time to create something beautiful" and do it instead of writing about how I wish I could. The satisfaction that I could take from looking at one of my masterpieces after I was finished, not really thinking about it, but merely knowing that it is right.
On a more mundane note, I'd also be able to do simple things like draw those characters of mine that I roleplay. Endless drawings, innumerable poses, and imagine what new ideas it would spur! Imagine how much better I would know, understand and play my characters if I were able to define them on a concrete medium, if I could free them from the confines of my mind where they frequently change. Picture Iolan the goat with his back mostly to us, his shortsword in his left hand parrying a thrust by a sparring partner while the longsword in his right lays back in preparation for a feint. Picture his face turned to the side so that you can see his smirk, picture that knowing smirk that is partially derived from his feral cousins. Can you picture that? I can't picture it the same way from one moment to the next; and I doubt that anyone else can peer into my mind and see it either. The communication that is possible through drawing--even drawing meant for such a simple purpose as to capture a figment of your imagination--is immense, but it's something I cannot tap into.
Even the act of drawing would be beneficial to the soul. Much as writing can free a person, I'm certain that drawing something can as well. And while I'm glad that I have at least some marginal ability to write, it's not enough to provide me with relief. The fire that burns in my chest is abated only partially, and it goes away with a sickening smoke when I try to do things like use words to describe something when a picture would be best--when I try to tell someone just how Corzara looks old but has regained a youthful air; or that his mate isn't as buxom as her written description would indicate, but that it's merely something that catches the eye immediately; or that Canti's color patterns aren't the sort of tawny-brown swirl that you're thinking of, but rather a different one--all of it fails, but it can be expressed with a pencil and unlined paper.
For you folks that read this and can draw, take this moment to appreciate and revel in that fact. Salutations, and hasta la byebye.
P.S.: And for any musicians feeling offended that they weren't brought into my desires, make sure not to forget that I'm in a band (and we now have a name: The Hypodermic Needles).
But how it would be to draw! To say "I have fifty minutes in this study hall. Just enough time to create something beautiful" and do it instead of writing about how I wish I could. The satisfaction that I could take from looking at one of my masterpieces after I was finished, not really thinking about it, but merely knowing that it is right.
On a more mundane note, I'd also be able to do simple things like draw those characters of mine that I roleplay. Endless drawings, innumerable poses, and imagine what new ideas it would spur! Imagine how much better I would know, understand and play my characters if I were able to define them on a concrete medium, if I could free them from the confines of my mind where they frequently change. Picture Iolan the goat with his back mostly to us, his shortsword in his left hand parrying a thrust by a sparring partner while the longsword in his right lays back in preparation for a feint. Picture his face turned to the side so that you can see his smirk, picture that knowing smirk that is partially derived from his feral cousins. Can you picture that? I can't picture it the same way from one moment to the next; and I doubt that anyone else can peer into my mind and see it either. The communication that is possible through drawing--even drawing meant for such a simple purpose as to capture a figment of your imagination--is immense, but it's something I cannot tap into.
Even the act of drawing would be beneficial to the soul. Much as writing can free a person, I'm certain that drawing something can as well. And while I'm glad that I have at least some marginal ability to write, it's not enough to provide me with relief. The fire that burns in my chest is abated only partially, and it goes away with a sickening smoke when I try to do things like use words to describe something when a picture would be best--when I try to tell someone just how Corzara looks old but has regained a youthful air; or that his mate isn't as buxom as her written description would indicate, but that it's merely something that catches the eye immediately; or that Canti's color patterns aren't the sort of tawny-brown swirl that you're thinking of, but rather a different one--all of it fails, but it can be expressed with a pencil and unlined paper.
For you folks that read this and can draw, take this moment to appreciate and revel in that fact. Salutations, and hasta la byebye.
P.S.: And for any musicians feeling offended that they weren't brought into my desires, make sure not to forget that I'm in a band (and we now have a name: The Hypodermic Needles).
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