This is the part where I write a two page essay about my life in an attempt to convince Belmont to accept me.
I will be honest: The more I want it, the more I feel guilty for wanting it.
Though my logical brain knows the Lord empowers us to do the things we love--I have been indoctrinated with an inescapable, false belief about "God's calling."
I have a portfolio full of art that I am only 70% proud of. 70%--because 99% of time I feel like I am faking it. I have been "out" of art for four years now; pursuing all the other things I thought were "right" according to God because...they made me miserable.
Surely God's will is suffering.
Right?
Right?
Surely God wants us to be miserable because work is supposed to be work.
Right?
The enemy is such a liar.
Dear Belmont,
I got directed down a strange path. To this day, I do not know if the decision was mine. Perhaps I was guided by others whose dreams I was chasing instead of my own, perhaps I was lead by the hand of The Lord and still do not fully understand the reason. I do know, however, this was never my first choice. Writing and art was my first choice.
When they ask me for my story, am I going to tell them about my blurred high school years that were shipwrecked due to manic-depressive episodes, fits of rage, and years asleep? Do I tell them about my best friend blowing his brains out only months after moving to Nashville because "Gays are an abomination and will defile our children"?
I could mention I'm a screw up at love, and that I am lonely.
Dear Belmont,
I paint houses because I was an orphan once.
I used to be a poet before I was beat down so badly by my "best friend" that "lovingly" told me:
My grammar sucks,
I am not a great writer,
I need a more realistic profession.
And ART is the only place I have any confidence.
Most people just look at my art like a cow through the fence. It's not r e l e v a n t because it's not print. It's not minimalistic. It's too colorful and playful to go on the walls of hipsters who would evaporate if Instagram didn't exist.
Still...my confidence is: 70%
There is so much story.
There are so many reasons I am academically unimpressive.
There are so many reasons I just want another chance.
And then, the enemy so thoughtfully reminds me: Chances run out. We live in the real world measured by production--not our substance. I cannot help but wonder what I would look like if I were actually measured by my substance.
I don't know.
But, I think I would be
Magenta.
