As much as words and writing are my medium, art often strikes truer to my heart, and my drawings often reveal things I haven’t thought to say. If I want to figure out how I’m feeling on a particular day, I should draw a self-portrait. If the face is withdrawn and homely, with small, overworked catlike eyes, I know exactly how I feel, no matter how cheerful I’m acting. On the other hand…
Almost two years ago, I was stubbornly fighting to keep a clear head and a hard heart, even as my crush sent me excerpts of poetry from The Lays of Beleriand (which he is, by the way, reading to me in full now).
I didn’t write about what I was feeling. I couldn’t break through the hard shell I had calcified around myself.
But randomly doodling one day, I drew this self-portrait:
My head didn’t believe I was in love. My hands knew otherwise.