I Wonder if This is What Michaelangelo Thought As He Painted the Sistine Chapel

I am in the business of creation.

I create visuals using magazines, ink, glue, and sometimes words. I create alternate universes with the stroke of a brush. I create the remnants of a memory - now faded and most likely different from the reality that once existed - with the entertaining viscosity of rubber cement and a few newspaper clippings.

I create feelings that you've never felt before. I create feelings that you buried deep inside when you were small. I create moments of confusion in how I place objects around a blank canvas (I'll give you a hint: most of the time, it's haphazard. I've never been one for planning). I create disgust with the still-sticky spray adhesive that seeped out from underneath a photo that you accidentally get on your finger as you brush it against the canvas (you really shouldn't touch).

I create fantasy worlds with the vocabulary I've learned over time. Colors become fruit and black becomes green. Still, somehow, things seem to make sense - in one way or another. It is the only place in which the non-sensical can be logical. In fact, when things are too straight-forward, you complicate things with what must be hidden symbolism or a cleverly disguised metaphor.

I create a representation of myself, naked and exposed, for all of your eyes to penetrate. You see through me. You rip me apart and take pieces as your own. You criticize every inch of my goosebumped skin, telling me how I can be different and how I should be changed. This figurative body is not to your liking, and you demand that I should act accordingly.

Until I am no longer in the business of creation.

I am in the business of conformity.