When I step outside I wonder.

The blank canvas. The empty room. Sometimes I reflect on my life, sometimes I merely live it. My paintings, sketches etc fill in the void. I hold them like treasures. Why do I create? Am I a hunter wishing to bag a moment in time? Is the scene worth capturing and displaying like a trophy? Who is my audience? Do I create for them or for myself? 

Do I desire praise? Am I hungry for acceptance? Am I willing to have my work only to be sung praises because it’s mine? Is my friendship the rubric? How did great artists do it? Was it there popularity or were they merely patron-pleasers? 

Does the extra time I now enjoy create a sense of something missing? Who am I now…