The way lights reflect off of the road as it gets darker out.

Okay! First real post! I'm sticking to the gimmick and everything. It's not so long, but it doesn't really matter.

I was told that I am not a music person, which I find odd. I am a great appreciator of music, and enjoy most if not all genres. I love making music too (well, I love playing and singing other people's music, but I think that should count), though even after all these years I still can't read it, because I've never been consistent enough. But I don't listen to the lyrics unless I'm trying to learn them - actually I barely know the name of any songs or albums I like. I don't pay attention to the artist, I don't admire their technical brilliance. I just like listening to music. Is that not enough?

It gets worse, though: I like painting but I never paint; I like baking but I seldom bake; I love literature but it takes me so long to read half a chapter, and every other sentence is lost to memory. So you might say, I am not really a reading person.

But then, after all of this, I like watching the way artificial light reflects off of tarmac when it's getting dark, and I think it's even better in the rain. I think it would be beautiful to paint. I imagine it in both watercolour and oils. I go out to find a set of brushes because I've realised I only have one and it's so, so small, but I go too late in the day and on the wrong day. The good sets are sold out. So I only have one brush and it's tiny. And, I'm dissatisfied. It is beautiful to paint, I'm sure we've all seen a dozen images barely distinguishable: a city in the rain in the late evening. A street full of cars. And, somehow despite the chaos you know must be right there if you could only press 'play', it is peaceful. I find this in real life, too. Picture rush hour, a sensory nightmare, and you're waiting for the bus with a two dozen others, and though initially you were glad to get a seat now you regret it because though you're not claustrophic everyone has a limit and you're always so close to it, and you'll be damned if you're going to stim too much in public. But to the side, you watch a particular patch on the road, where a streetlight and a shop sign mix yellow and blue, and every vehicle passing for a few good moments adds a little red, and it's okay.

I compare this now to what I was told in therapy, to focus, but it's less focus and more letting everything else blur a little. Taking deep breaths doesn't help but I focus on the pauses in between breathing and that's like doing nothing at all. It's like a hobby, when you're not such a hobby person. Even if you are. I like songs about city lights, I like to imagine they have caught something, though I'd prefer to read about them. But people don't seem to write about nothing as often as I do.

As often happens, I am concerned that all this seems rather disjointed. It makes sense to me, and I try to remember to put commas in my run on sentences, so you have a chance to breathe. Maybe there are too many commas, I don't know.

What I'm trying to say is that I am so tired all of the time. I have done everything I can think of. I am still doing. But these things take time, more than half my life, apparently. I complained to my therapist that I thought I was getting better. I find myself devastated like the survivor island of a tempest. I am a music person, indisputably. And I paint and bake and I find the time to write long essays about the subtle continued metaphor in a book I've read ten times over in the past month. I am. I am all of me, like Shadow the Hedgehog who indisputably is cool as shit. And if this this doesn't make sense I'm sorry, because this is just very hard to explain.

Back to city lights; my final conclusion:

I don't find them so beautiful anymore. There are moments, but it seems harder to appreciate things at the moment. I don't know if I'll fall so completely in love with them again. I fluctuate as though I am sand, caught in a wave. Constantly reforming and falling falling apart again. I am getting better all the time, and I will find something new, eventually. And I will find the time to paint. And next time I will argue when I am told that I am not an artist, because it is simply that I am.

I rate them 10/10, for as long as you can.

Thank you for your time, ~B.