i won't always love what i'll never have
i feel things. i feel like my body is falling apart. i can't remember things and my back hurts and my hip aches and am i eighty yet? the answer is still no. it's still twenty-three. but that doesn't seem to matter. i feel calloused and it makes me feel old. i used to feel things so sharply. the world used to be so pointy and life used to hurt so much. now the things that hurt are so specific and so grown up. and i realise how ridiculous i must sound, how fucking foolish. at twenty-three. little nipper, tiny grasshopper up the tree. you're not old. but i feel old. i used to feel so much. and it wasn't always pleasant, but it was always life. it made me want to cut my hands and spread my blood all over the white walls. it made me want to scream at the top of my lungs and run as hard as i could, forever. it wasn't pleasurable but it was feeling. that feeling caused me to write. and draw.
i drew shitty drawings and i wrote shitty poetry but at least i was doing something. now i miss painting so much i feel like sobbing with longing and it doesn't change a thing. i still haven't picked up a brush or a tube of paint. and it'd be so easy. i've got canvasses. old ones i could just paint over. a new start with my mother's paint. i've got artist's blood. maybe not much, but a little. i can tell from the shitty drawings, the line of arty ancestors and the screaming drive to paint. and yet i don't. ever. paint.
i drew shitty drawings and i wrote shitty poetry but at least i was doing something. now i miss painting so much i feel like sobbing with longing and it doesn't change a thing. i still haven't picked up a brush or a tube of paint. and it'd be so easy. i've got canvasses. old ones i could just paint over. a new start with my mother's paint. i've got artist's blood. maybe not much, but a little. i can tell from the shitty drawings, the line of arty ancestors and the screaming drive to paint. and yet i don't. ever. paint.