Being human

When i mention I’m an artist, even the phrase brings to me paradoxes of inner response. I am unworthy said Ted and Bob, showing me of my own high regard, respect and lack all at once.

Still ……………it’s met with - 

“What a lovely hobby, how relaxing” and also the other’s lack, acknowledgment of imagined nulle point creativity. Sometimes it takes a wee while to recover.

Tho when the focus of looking takes hold i know nothing of this.

The other’s feeling of inadequacy is met with reason - ‘

"Everyone has their talents, one can’t be good at everything.” and so on. 

Except I feel a need to defend art and probably myself.

Questions of how one’s supposed to understand art, hammey analytical prowess apparently to now be exhibited and in the firing line, others defend with - 

“I know what I like.”

“Perfect” I say keeping my studies under my hat.

I no longer feel it matters. I am tired of this argument. The only thing that matters to me is self honesty unmasked from defensive prejudice and uneducated preconceptions. Then I must pull love toward me for all 

Often i fail..