Self-stress [a][r][t][o][r]

[invitan]

She's not an artist.

No, she's not, and never will be. She cannot create. What she's always been doing is watching silently from afar the true artists express themselves.

Then imitating them.

It is not original. And never will be original.

She's not an artist, and never will be. She still loves and treasures the arts so much though that occasionally she attempts to invent something.

Or failed attempts, rather.

She's afraid, and ever will be, that the love fostering her spirit will exhaust someday, and her soul will wither even before she realizes it. That someday she will wake up in an asylum, surrounded by glassy pairs of eyes. That even the shadow of the invisible arts will constantly gnaw at her conscience while she is fussy over the trivial petty troubles of life.

So she still hasn't abandoned the arts.

And never will she.