The Artist...

They call you talented and you nod your head and only say thank you because it is the proper thing to say and because your therapist told you to.  You're not little anymore. They don't have to lie to you.

Why is it that people always feel the need to make someone feel better even if it means lying to them.  It gets our hopes up and we are shot back down. 

She disgusting. She's fat. She's gross. She's a dreamer. She's locked up inside and can only dream of the things she wishes would appear. The dreams of being tiny and wakes up huge.  She dreams of flying and wakes up grounded.  She dreams of passion and wakes up with... She doesn't know what to feel anymore. She feels in her head but not outside.  She can see images but can't reproduce them. She is a dreamer but can't make the dream. She is an artist but can't reproduce the images she imagines with her brain. 

She can't draw. Nor can she paint. She doesn't have a fancy camera. She knows how to make sculpture but isn't fluid. 

She lacks ...

so much. She drowns in her thoughts all the time. Wishing the past never existed because she wishes the past was still the future.  She has lost a hold on the time.

She longs for a frail body so she'll become invisible.  Maybe she needs to be a lone.  No, she can't handle being alone.  Being alone is too dangerous.  She no longer seeks therapy.  She's her own therapist now.  She is her own.  Soon she will be nothing but just that.

No friends; no lover; no money; no job; no hope; just her...

 and soon her life will fade away and she will accomplish nothing.   She will sit and stare into her world.  "She's always in her own world." " She has her own style."

She was just living... to die.  She tried dying... but she lived.

So did I.


Sometimes, I wish it had resulted otherwise.

-LR