Between the Skin, the Soul, and Its Creations
I’m beginning to feel that I should write again. When I’m in deep melancholy a state of pain and reflection I give myself time to think more than to feel. When life becomes unbearably ugly or selfish, I connect to art and its theory of living.
Art is a companion to my life, like skin beneath my own, an organ I cannot peel away, something that grows inside me. I often question its meaning, its purpose. I am consumed by life and the stories people tell me through their bodies, voices, minds, and, on rare occasions, their souls. They inspire me.
Sometimes, I wonder if this lust for life and for all of human existence comes from a romantic naivety or hypersensitivity. I feel hyper-aware of people, of everything.
When I explore the processes and rituals of art in my life, I see how fragile it is. Art is vulnerable a mirror reflecting every image in my mind, every feeling, experience, emotion, and action I take, both within and beyond myself. It is a living, flaming passion, and I breathe it in and exhale its smoke. My art is my religion, fundamentally driven by beauty. It’s the feeling of exposing your deepest self. In my artistic state, I am unashamed, proud, like the emperor in The Emperor’s New Clothes.
But every passion comes with its burden. For me, art holds the potential to utterly crush me, especially through failure. Life isn’t always romantic it’s often a series of disappointments. And eventually, we all meet the same end: death. But lets not be dramatic!
Still, you design your happiness. You chase it because your life depends on it, whether it’s found in the mundane (which I find most beautiful) or something grand. We all need a drive, something to embrace that brings us joy.
For me, creating can sometimes feel like a double-edged sword. If I’m not careful, it becomes my entire purpose. I can work for months on a project, losing all sense of time, space, and reality. I forget everything else except the task at hand. To give so much of your life’s time to this mission to forget to live leaves me questioning: Is it worth it? Is it worth sacrificing this one precious life, this fleeting time we have?
Art is fundamentally absurd.
I am not my work.
Yes, it is a deep part of my being a mission, a dreamland where I escape. Artists often seek to give meaning to an absurd life, projecting their feelings onto their work to create that meaning. As a creative person, my purpose is to give, to bring more beauty into the world. To create is to strive to be more than a person; it is to become an idea.
As I reflect more, I realize that a life worth living, for me, requires balance between being Enxhi and being Enxhi the artist.To live is to explore the realty you have and the fantasies in my head I’m so grateful for that of its beauty .
