I've painted another picture. I always think when I paint I should come up with a verse to complement it. But so far there are only colours.
Theys swirl around me in starbursts.
All the despondence that came from having to apply myself to a task I would rather not be doing seems to have evaporated.
Which is miraculous.
You know why the centre seldom holds? Because we haven't put in any love to keep it together. When I look at what I've abandoned I realise that it I just didn't care enough, love enough, to see it through.
Loving nothing makes me weak, brittle, just about to break, never quite breaking, on the floor, swept up with the other rubbish, brief, discordant, fading.
Can you learn to love if it doesn't happen spontaneously? I'm not talking about people. I'm talking about projects. Can I pour myself into one I have no feeling for?
I'll let you know.
2 comments:
I miss painting. I was never very good at it, but it was an amazing way to funnel my creativity and energy.
I suck big time. But my paintings give me pleasure. Also my friends are tickled to death to receive them in the form of birthday cards.
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