Pressure

I am sitting awake trying to attain great grades whilst feeling a sense of pressure. I am aware of how my life is changing constantly and at the present time I feel a sense of limbo about everything. I am really seeking truth, what my life exists for beyond what I already know and how I am ever to go about doing the things that are within my heart. It's strange to be finishing up degree this year, it has been one of the best times in my life and although I don't want it to end, it must- part of me is so glad to not have to study in such an academic tone again.

 My passion has always been art, for the past four years I have only dipped my feet in it and my soul craves the feeling of oil paints between my fingers, sewing machines running as I draw with stitches, fabric dyes that excite the eye and huge-bigger-than-life-canvases that I can be at one with in my spirit. I ache to display the information in my soul. I cannot believe that these four years have been like this, how some days I feel like I am about to burst with paint out of my mouth, yet unable to express what I feel. Instead this colour, this emotion and strong sense of being has been put into academics, tightened into a small box called assignments and timed into moments alone before the dawn breaks, just trying to figure out who I am as I read in all honesty who Jesus is. Theology has changed me, it has also constrained me. 

I have to admit in this four years I have hidden myself, Although I'm pretty opinionated, enthusiastic and in your face... I have hidden even with my closest relationships who I am inside. It's funny how you get called 'the painter' or 'the singer' when really nobody has ever seen you paint, or heard you sing. I talked with my best friend about this the other day, it's as if these things are written all over your face. I feel like such a hypocrite when people say, "oh she's that painter" I feel like bluntly speaking what I ask inside, "How the hell do you know?" because none of me feels like a painter... not one ounce of me feels like I have a slightest memory of what it is to paint. Knowing that in just a short few months I have the choice to acquaint myself with an old friend (paint) I wonder will he still be my friend? Will I have changed so much that we do not recognize one another anymore? 

I bite my nails.