5/4/2023

I’ve tried to pick up the brush. I fill the cup with water and line up the paint. I set the palette and rags. Ready.

I stare at the blank canvas.

The images and clips move through my head but I can’t pick up the brush.

I’m frozen. I’ve been here before. 10 years ago.

I abandoned the brush and discarded the canvas.

It’s so loud and it moves through me.

It’s the only way.

It’s like a current of suffering moving down my arms.

It moves the paint and aches on the canvas.

This act is the connecting of two forces. Two worlds.

Existing in the in-between rips through me.

I walk away and wonder if it’ll be another 10 years