Gallery
It’s a cycle- a discouraging cycle no one seems to grasp, one my own inner optimist cannot even begin to grab onto.
There’s a chance everyone that follows will be like her, or her, or him, or her, and so on and then I’m trapped on a hamster wheel of feelings and thoughts and confusion and being left for all three of these things and wearing myself down as a result.
There’s a chance I’ll find someone that is like none of these people, who is unlike anyone I’ve ever met- I hold onto this sliver of hope, this tiny fragment of reassurance that maybe there’s someone out there who won’t fuck me over or make me feel too much and not enough at the same time; the cycle makes this image of an idyllic state of being just that- ideal, but an image and nothing more.
I can’t step into this image, I can’t paint or draw myself into it, I can admire it all I want and only feel as a painful consequence; the feeling this artwork gives me is too strong and is sure to let me down.
It is the reason there are twisting hallways and locked closets of unfinished paintings and unsaid thoughts translated into writings.
It is an unrealistic image, too high of expectations, one to be admired from a far distance and not up close; if I get too close you’ll see the details, I’ll see the cracks in the canvas, I’ll see right through it and realize it’s not perfect.
I realize it’s not perfect, perfection doesn’t exist, and this image I’ve created as a shining beacon to soothe my loneliness is one that will never shine bright enough, it’s one that will only keep me in the dark, dimly lit at best.
The small inkling of admiration has dwindled, I’m losing hope, ready to guard it off, ready to lock this image away for good.
It is simultaneously the best and worst piece of artwork in the gallery of my mind.
There’s a chance everyone that follows will be like her, or her, or him, or her, and so on and then I’m trapped on a hamster wheel of feelings and thoughts and confusion and being left for all three of these things and wearing myself down as a result.
There’s a chance I’ll find someone that is like none of these people, who is unlike anyone I’ve ever met- I hold onto this sliver of hope, this tiny fragment of reassurance that maybe there’s someone out there who won’t fuck me over or make me feel too much and not enough at the same time; the cycle makes this image of an idyllic state of being just that- ideal, but an image and nothing more.
I can’t step into this image, I can’t paint or draw myself into it, I can admire it all I want and only feel as a painful consequence; the feeling this artwork gives me is too strong and is sure to let me down.
It is the reason there are twisting hallways and locked closets of unfinished paintings and unsaid thoughts translated into writings.
It is an unrealistic image, too high of expectations, one to be admired from a far distance and not up close; if I get too close you’ll see the details, I’ll see the cracks in the canvas, I’ll see right through it and realize it’s not perfect.
I realize it’s not perfect, perfection doesn’t exist, and this image I’ve created as a shining beacon to soothe my loneliness is one that will never shine bright enough, it’s one that will only keep me in the dark, dimly lit at best.
The small inkling of admiration has dwindled, I’m losing hope, ready to guard it off, ready to lock this image away for good.
It is simultaneously the best and worst piece of artwork in the gallery of my mind.
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