Just a short in-between post. So today I cracked open the storage boxes of books I had in the upstairs room and started arranging my bookshelf.
So far I’ve almost filled up 5 shelves, one of which was dedicated to art books. It hit me that I have spent most of my youth reading and thinking about art, instead of creating and looking at actual art (unless you count the hours I’ve spent looking at art in printed books). Somehow, this realization makes me content.
Things have clicked, somewhat.