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it is one of those days where the world seems to over lap with something else. like a cat, how many lives do we live? once upon a time i was content to live by blaring music and oil paint. my expectations were to live till i was 40 having gone out in a bang probably poison by the very materials i used. i used to be creative and snobby. oil paint does not wash out easily. it stays in your hair and traces on the skin. long nights fueled by wawa ice tea and loud music. a paint brush held between my teeth and finger wound around others. as another carefully applied paint to shellacked board. every color chosen to compliment each other vibrant and unapologetic. life is not a stretch blank canvas that they say it is. which is odd when you spent four years studying art. it is more like pages ripped from different sources and collage into a sketch book last minute. i lost that girl who kept thinking that the future held something, who thought what she was doing was the right thing. it was not perfect and it was scary just like it is now. however there were moments where it felt right. principles were not compromised to get something done. everything was stood by with certainty and confidence in what you were doing. it was all for appearances sake of course. poised and perfect with the sharpness and ruthlessness of people who would take you down if they had too.
and my how i fell.
no longer smiling, perfect and poised. life revolved around green apples, which you can not really paint from. pears are a much better subject. only one four by four painting carried through. three gold fish swimming as in a stained glass window. lines were drawn and walls erected and people who were once trusted people held nothing but spite and bitterness.
isolation, desolation and no direction.
a string of unhappy people who have hope. jumping to please and not pleasing anyone. surrounded by tiredness and know that nothing is working and everyone is in it for themselves.
wearing stupid blue shirt, trying to please everyone and have the perfect answer to everything. stifling screams as the world marches by in a pace that is does not makes sense.
no one can be please and hand reached out get the bare minim. there simply is not enough to go around.
brief hope gives way to the numb realization that nothing done will ever accomplish anything except keeping the bare threads from snapping altogether. so as more hope is lost the world moves farther and father from what it once had been.
no one can be pleased.
the smell and feel of oil paint is only a memory.
what do you want to do with your life? you stare blindly into the void. what where you supposed to be doing before it all feel apart?
what is talent? can you rely on something that you have denied for so many years? something that you fail at so miserably that you may never fully recover from? the acceptance and approval you so desperately seeked was snatched at the moment the cracks form and everything feel apart. there are no second chances. you blew it. you could not live up to expectations. you then tried for years to do what was right and be pleasing. that did not work after all. so what will do? WHAT WILL YOU DO? in cavern like echos bouncing through out your head, slamming against the walls of the subconscious. just tell me what you want. who am i suppose to be? just tell me so i can be left alone but pretending to be a productive member of society. take the pills one by one so i can be a productive member of society. to smile and be perfect like i was supposed to be. poised and accepted on the surface and we watch for the cracks to appear.
life used to be on a palette filled with cobalt blue and hookers green. arches of alizerin crimson laid against naples yellow upon orange shellacked board. the knots and swirls held more stories that could be told in a single brush stroke. it was not a blank canvas. it was not stretched and taunt against the frame but flat and unyielding as the brush glided over the surface. it all lives in a dream, a different universe that may not have even been parallel to this one. maybe it had been visited by a space ship on some strange world. maybe once upon a time that girl was an alien living in a world that could not sustain itself so it was gobbled up by the gravity of the planets around it. the music is no longer the beat of anything. it clash and then dies. the ears strain to hear anything familiar. a tube of napples yellow can not even be found. the palette knives are lost and there is no board to paint on. the shellac and liquin have congealed in harden in there vessels. paint brush are no more than bones and fossils of another life. the smell of oil paint and the feel of it linger in dreams. my hands are clean and do not know how to even begin to excavate those remnants.
so no matter how much color is crave it is all just monotones. the world passes by moving farther and farther away from that place.