I haven’t been here in a while. I’ve been off elsewhere distracted by crippling emotions—the kind that put you in a sweet happy world of dopamine before flaring into a wildfire out of control causing you to run from the heat only to fan the flames before crumbling to the ground in a pile of smoldering ash.
A little green sprig pushed its way through the remnants, quietly so as not to disturb the tiny red-hot embers hiding beneath the surface. And then a gust of wind blew the ash away and turned embers back into flame. And I landed here.
I’ve been painting more than writing, but the last week or so I’ve put the brush down. I’ve been staring at this pretty blue canvas with an idea of what to put on it but not a solid plan and with great trepidation of disturbing what I’ve got on there. If I screw up, I can’t fix the background. I don’t usually worry about the background because my art is usually fluid. But I don’t want to alter what I’ve painted so far. So I’m sitting here in front of this canvas waiting for an epiphany.
And now I’m outside smoking a cigarette, or about to.
So, what’s happening on this end of the world? This place feels so underground.
To be honest, I just came here to vent.