(no subject)
the inside of my car is starting to resemble someone else's life. it's been happening for weeks now. a six-inch layer of silent rebellion: plastic water bottles, road maps, napkins, disposable cups with tea stains and to-go tops, a blue paper surgical gown, dirt, sand, CDs, cases, cards, sleeves, clothes, crumbs, souvenirs.. you think this isn't me, but it is. I know the comfort of a little clutter, the same way you know the catharsis of a good clean. up until two weeks ago, you didn't even know I was a painter. what will another two weeks bring? I know it takes more than this to sail the high seas. but for now, please - just believe me when I say the things you long to hear; don't make it too hard for me to hear the same; and show a little mercy when I'm too mean to realize everything in between.