Sometimes perfection is the last thing on my mind.

I get this ball of energy sometimes.

It's like a furling with microscopic prickles;

It starts from somewhere unknown 

And sends motor impulses to the effector,

Ordering it to get paper and pencil

With music like the one previously linked,

The hand moves on its own

And the mind almost blanks

Random things pop up

And the drawing is finished before you know it.

Gaunt, black and white, sketchy, empty looking and coarse.

It's nowhere near pretty

And family tells you it's 'terrifying'.

Nightmarish eyebrows-

You had, in that moment, felt compelled to flare it out.

Wild, messy

For some reason you felt engrossed, agitated even

That you didn't care that imperfections were what ruled this drawing

And it wasn't 'aesthetically appealing'.

The eyes always looks empty if the lips aren't smiling;

Akin to how you feel at times.

Shapeless lips and rowdy shading

It's as though something takes over you for a second

Usage of the pencil is not even close to being delicate.
You are careless, ugly, yearning and impatient.
You can never care less.

And boom

The drawing is complete

Completely-

Unattractive and unworthy of gaining approval when feasted upon by the eyes.

You don't understand;

You never do.

It just felt really, really, really great to let everything go in that moment

Before you return to drawing sparkly eyes and precise shapes and lines

And before you try to make things look 'good' again.

After all
You do get really bored of the doodles that you sketch whenever there's time.
Flat, one-dimensional, not attractive enough to make you hold your breath,
But not rough enough to send shivers down your spine either.

Somehow, the doodles always end up looking the same: emotionless and striving for the same standard of 'ideal'. It's always a futile attempt at perfection and beauty.

That kind of middle line is boring.

That kind of drawing isn't what I want to continue.

I want to explore.

I'm not trying to improve my skills anymore-
There's no meaning since drawing is what I like,
And there isn't a point in striving for appearances when all you like doing is using the action itself as a way of recharging and expression.

Since I'm not planning to use drawing in any way other than for my own critiques and experimentation, 'improving' has gradually become  so unimportant that it has fallen off the list.

All I wanna do
And probably will do

Is to improve on how I express myself through drawing.

'Improvement' to me only means something that way.

And that
Is to vent and show,
Via the callouses in my creations
And cringey skills

Everything from within.

So
I want to tear through paper and hate my drawings.
I want to sketch and make it lifeless and hot
I want to melt through all those fine lines and careful coloring I used to do.

This feels very much like an insult to Art itself,
But paper and pencil to me isn't something to be used for beauty.

Perhaps, it is an unspoken rule that 'beauty', 'emotions' and 'meaning' have to come hand in hand

But to me,
It doesn't.



It doesn't.