Drawing.
I draw like I have nothing inside of me, and I draw like all I have is all I'm giving. I wish I could create those beautiful large expressive paintings, vibrant colors, textures, paintings you look at where you feel some sudden rush of temperature. I look at other artists' work and I think that I'm never going to be good enough, or that all I am doing is playing catch up. People with careers younger than me, me overwhelmed with frustrations over silly things like more followers on a picture uploading platform. Wanting more attention and at the same time pushing back at the intimacy you lose in sharing with a wide audience. It grinds on me until I realize I'm clenching my teeth as I paint for hours, gripping the pen or brush tightly between my thumb and middle finger, causing my arm to ache up into my shoulder.
Some days there is nothing I can do to relieve the pain but to lay flat on my back staring at the ceiling, feeling more time sweep away, worrying that the time I could spend painting will be wasted on the floor. I sit up and brush the inevitable crumb off my thigh, earlier rules of not eating in the studio ignored or forgotten.
I breathe in, I breathe out, my mind becomes this hazy feeling beyond happiness, a comfort so personal to myself that I even now hesitate to describe it. I breathe like I'm sleeping as I draw, patient breaths just there to keep me living, automatic, no fever no rush. I don't feel the pain in my shoulder until I stop, so I don't stop and I regret as a night designated for sleep is spent trying to bend my back and arm to relieve the pressure.
Contortions in the dark and picturing in my mind how good it might feel to be able to bend completely backward, snapping my back in half so that whatever I am feeling can disappear. I'm convincing myself the only way to stop the new ache behind my shoulder blade is to bend my arm, above my head, wishing I could put it in some medieval pulley. My pillow has fallen off my bed and still I move, snap, rotate, bend my neck at angles that shouldn't be possible. Restless, sitting up and turning the light on, considering what book to read to take my mind off of the night ahead.
Eventually I read paragraphs as a blind whole, the muscles in my back twitching from over stretching, light left on and glasses half pressed hard against my temple. My finger lightly holding the page open, I sleep.
Some days there is nothing I can do to relieve the pain but to lay flat on my back staring at the ceiling, feeling more time sweep away, worrying that the time I could spend painting will be wasted on the floor. I sit up and brush the inevitable crumb off my thigh, earlier rules of not eating in the studio ignored or forgotten.
I breathe in, I breathe out, my mind becomes this hazy feeling beyond happiness, a comfort so personal to myself that I even now hesitate to describe it. I breathe like I'm sleeping as I draw, patient breaths just there to keep me living, automatic, no fever no rush. I don't feel the pain in my shoulder until I stop, so I don't stop and I regret as a night designated for sleep is spent trying to bend my back and arm to relieve the pressure.
Contortions in the dark and picturing in my mind how good it might feel to be able to bend completely backward, snapping my back in half so that whatever I am feeling can disappear. I'm convincing myself the only way to stop the new ache behind my shoulder blade is to bend my arm, above my head, wishing I could put it in some medieval pulley. My pillow has fallen off my bed and still I move, snap, rotate, bend my neck at angles that shouldn't be possible. Restless, sitting up and turning the light on, considering what book to read to take my mind off of the night ahead.
Eventually I read paragraphs as a blind whole, the muscles in my back twitching from over stretching, light left on and glasses half pressed hard against my temple. My finger lightly holding the page open, I sleep.