There’s something about self-discovery, inner work, and healing that seems to imprison me.

Whereas art, in all forms, is a source of freedom.

Perhaps I’m trapped by the consumption of it all, thinking when I should be creating.

Is the consumption the problem?

Although the consumption and appreciation of art, of what it speaks, stirs more relatable feelings and emotions than the consumption of the ‘great teachers’.

Perhaps they seem too close to the divine - an aspiration that only leads to more pressure and guilt.

There’s something ‘human’ about art - its ability to portray the unspeakable, and yet its power to seem so familiar.