HmmmmMMM

I read another message. Phone lights up. I see it, I may even open it.

And then I let it go.

 

It’s almost like my mind is a crate. It can’t hold anything, it’s not capable. It doesn’t care. Animosity – nope. Anger – no thanks.

A thick layer of disappointment has settled and made it’s home there. Coating my thoughts in numbness. So much so it feels kinda like an overload of data.

I wish you could do that with your mind, like a computer. Chuck it out when you realise it’s not on your side anymore. Bin it when it leads you back to the same conclusions but just with different faces and names attached.

Begin again. Same goals just open to different routes.

A few weeks ago I wanted so desperately to stop feeling. To be able to let things go. And now this week, I got my wish. However, I let so many things go it’s almost like it’s not a question of whether we could care, should. It’s just an automated response of N.O.

Rejected – my mind can’t hold you. Sorry.  I feel like law of attraction is now working, except I wish it wasn’t.

Now the world wants me. I picked up my phone just the other day and six messages were beaming back. So many bubbles all wanting me to water them with my validation. MY phone light picking at my eyes. So I take note of the names and think HmmmmMMMM. They’ll be okay without me and turn it over again.

At my best, I can merely feel your weight, your importance. See you in my eyes. Hold you in my hands. My mind an art gallery. A rented room full of hope and creativity that people wonder in to wonder out of.

Because once they see all of it, it’s too overwhelming. They have to leave.

Maybe they hold some colour, an idea or a familiar memory with them. Or maybe they just come in to get out of the cold.

I, being the artist just lay on the floor.  As useful as a purposefully placed over-sized fern in minimalist apartments. Sitting in one of those ugly, paper pot-bags. Fuck those pot-bags.

The paintings speak if you bothered to hear them. They also have a tendency to cry and water your floors.

But you don’t- so I’m waiting for nothing. No one to buy. No one to wonder why that’s like that. Why that stroke is so brash or rushed or passionate or… just there. Existing- on a canvas. Everyday, a new idea on a page you may or may not frame.

But never to take home. Never to hang.

I also prefer to wonder home alone then be tucked under somebody’s arm.