Being made of art

Sprinkles of glitter, gobs of paint, artistic patterns on the arms of those whom I hold dear. Being an artist has brought you here, sawdust is on this floor, and paint on her pants, which she complains of often, and the habitual,  soothing sounds of  Enya in the background. I cannot rightly say that I am as creative a person as the rest of my family, in fact compared to the rest, I have no talent at all. My family is completely surrounded by the works of art that they themselves have created. Whether it is my mom, whom paints and makes little elven people from pine cones or my uncle whose distinctive artwork is found everywhere in this town. Or my aunt the actress and my beloved cousin who wants so badly to be. I wish that I could be as confident and whimsical as I'm sure that they would wish I would be. I can doodle a little drawing but nothing more artistic will you find here a painting of someone or another, but nothing to be held so dear, as a portrait of yourself as a child, which was crafted by your mother. To watch as tattoos find themselves a home on the arms of those you wish you could be like, and the fear of not being able to hold a light to their superiority of adult sight. But who could know the comfort of being me? And to me, that's alright.