Waiting for the Sun.

It appears one can only write in a mediocre state of mind.

When in the most exuberant mood I seem unable to write about anything remotely serious, or something not having to do with sunshine. Too much of this drivel would, upon re-reading what
I'd have written afterwards, not only drive me mad and throw me in a most destructive self loathing mood, I can't imagine anyone else would appreciate all that concentrated.. gayness.

In contrast, my severe tendency to complete and utter apathy prevents me from writing anything at all in my darkest moments. I couldn't be bothered to get out of bed, imagine dealing with sentence structure.

My mind has to have some sort of momentary peace to be able to relativate matters enough to write them down. This is a pity, as it seems true art is born from the heaviest of emotions. Not that I see my scribbles as any form of art, mind you. I think I need to learn to find ways to express my deeper emotions in something as relatively benign as writing.

This is not so with my drawing. I have found I am unable to doodle anything of value when I'm doing generally good. And I don't care what y'all say, if I find it not good enough, that's what it is.

This makes me curious as to how people find what they're good at in life. Their calling, so to say. To be honest, I have no idea of this regarding myself. I know I'm moderately good at various things, but of all the things I've tried and busy myself with I fail to reach anything that nears utstanding. It might be I'm overly critical, I might compare my work too much with others. But this does not change anything.

Are people meant for more than one destiny, or do things just happen to be organized so that someone who should be painting figures this out at one point in his or her life, regardless of background and upbringing? If not, I can't imagine how much fate has been spilled, then. It makes me sad to think of all the undiscovered Dali's and Mucha's, Michelangelo's and Da Vinci's, stuck at an office job because their fathers thought art was for pussies. What if Slash had never found a guitar? Would he find happiness in anything other than strumming, or would he have had the feeling he was missing out on something vital his entire life? Do people's passions find them, or do they need to get out and search until they've found their life's one true love? What if they never find it, would theirs be considered a wasted life?

I need to find mine. I might have been the world's greatest karate kid if I'd started earlier, for all I know.

Is it ever too late?