Well duh, right? Who doesn't love art? But I mean, just being surrounded by it. Which brings up the whole topic of what is art, really? But every mother knows that every scrap of paper their kids have ever taken a pencil to is real art.
I absolutely can't stand to see toys. Like, I don't want to even acknowledge their existence. Pink, plastic, sparkly, light-up, battery-operated. No. THAT does not make me happy. Stepping in a sticky wet plate of finger paints that someone carelessly left on the floor? Strangely, that does make me happy. Well, after I get done pseudo-swearing and hopping around on one foot of course!
I just love having jars of pens and markers and colored pencils sitting around. It would be difficult to find some surface in this house not home to a scrap of art or art supplies. It just makes me happy.
Now I know I've been kind of a turd this week/last week. Sorry. Super sad. I don't even know why. I mean, there's really no valid reason for it. I have more than anyone could ever need, materially, emotionally, spiritually. So why mope around the house refusing to get dressed? Why does nothing hold my interest, and even movies are excruciating to sit through? Maybe I'll never know. Maybe it's just chemicals, drifting around to the wrong spots up there. It's hard not to panic, thinking the medication is wrong and I'll never get it right. It's hard to remember this is only temporary, and it will go away. Some days I just accept it and lay in bed, but some days I try to fight it off and force myself to pick up that needle and thread. Some days that doesn't work. But I'm going to keep trying.