I stare down my reflection in the mirror
Gazing back into those hauntingly large blue eyes delicately rimmed in purple hung heavy with weariness
Watching the loose, tattered painting smock slip off my shoulders to expose my skin
And I wonder if these paint stained hands are really different
I wonder if that paint is the blood of art as it would be on the hands of too many angst-ridden teenagers writing crap to be cool
I wonder the truth
I wonder how I feel
I wonder who I am
I wonder the entirity of eternity and existence away while staring back
Until I don't know who's staring
Until I can't believe it's me
Until I can't believe that this is my existence
Until I don't know anything but being
Until I don't know anything but blackness
And then something jolts me back to reality. A fury of claws from the cat. A call from my sister. The typing of keys. The sound of my father's gait coming down the stairs. The increasing realization of how dry my hands are from oil finger painting.
My memory returns. I know who I am. I am used to being myself again.
But I glance at the mirror one last time and I shudder. I shudder for what the mirror gave me a glimpse of. For where the mirror took me.
And I know this is me. But I also know that sometimes it isn't. It's so hard to be yourself when anyone is watching.
But I am struggling to be myself while everyone is watching.
Sometimes I feel like my life is being wasted. I feel like I am swirling down a drain. Spending my life dreaming, wishing, languishing, hoping, crying and burning over impossible things, or things which just aren't worth my time and attention.
Sometimes I feel like I am all talk and no action.
There is nothing in me but empty speech and resolution. I can preach you the most beautiful sermon you'd ever hear, but I am not so sure that I could ever go out and practice it.
And what's the good of the talk, if it can't be carried through? What's the use of hopes, dreams and intentions, if that's all they ever are?
And all these sometimes are now. They are almost my perpetual present. Always caught up with me. I honestly feel like a waste of a creature. A waste of life and space. A drain on human society. I only take and I have nothing to offer in return.
With this feeling of uselessness and wastefulness so fresh and strong, I am going to try and participate in a murder. A murder which will end in the freedom of my creativity. It's been held hostage too long.
I am going to go paint.