As much as I want to fatten up, as much as hunger kicks in my stomach, I don’t feel like eating. I wish the kicking would just stop and let me go on my merry way.
I painted this afternoon. Well, I squirted paint onto my “canvas” and arranged it just so, because daubing it on is so two-dimensional. Who would have guessed that I’d count a toothpick among my brushes? Or that I’d sprinkle gold eyeshadow over the top of the whole thing? Of course it doesn’t gleam enough; I don’t know what will make the sparkle happen. Also, there is a great gap on the left that I can’t seem to fill. Would gluing an amulet into the space do the trick? This piece was never meant to be flat.
I’m going to have to go to the art store, I guess, because Aqua-Net really isn’t going to be enough. I need to figure out how best to display it once it’s finished, and what to do with it. Do I make twenty more and ring the gallery in Honeoye Falls, asking to exhibit? How does one go about getting one’s work into the public eye? In many ways, I am a naïve artist.
I really don’t want to mat them before they’re sold, if they sell. If there’s even more than one in me. And what could I charge for it on Etsy? How would I ship it? Who would see it?
The sky is somber like my mood. I should be grateful that today is relatively free of pain. But there is pain. There is sadness that sleep is a gamble: will I wake up with my heart racing, my stomach somewhere in my throat? Will I ever feel refreshed again? Will my dreams dangle everything I want just out of reach, or will they turn into nightmares? Intense pleasure or the horror or rape — which will it be?
There is no escape for me. Not into dreams. So I read until my head hurts, or I play games, or if the mood strikes me, I create. How has my exhaustion not seeped into my work? The piece in progress is so red, so vibrant, like blood singing beneath my skin. I don’t write about sad people; I write about people who are blessed, touched by luck.
If this were the old problem coming back, surely I would want to die. I don’t. I want so desperately to live, without guilt, as someone who paints and writes all day and falls into bed at night next to whoever will live with me. I will have none of these things, so I am learning how to live without them, but the lesson is bitter and the ways I would otherwise sweeten my bitterness are all closed to me.
Does praying help? Show me my way, I would beg, if I truly believed anyone heard me. Show me how to live.