Sometimes, I wonder if I’m not a bit…touched. Life seems to drift by me in a hazy dazy kind of way. It’s like a watercolor painting in the way things blend and melt into each other. An abstract, most definitely. Punches of red, throughout, awkwardly placed where they shouldn’t be, among the pastel vagary of it all.
I feel fortunate that so many memories of my life are either gone to me, or are non specific. Otherwise, my painting would be black, with a shaky hand desperately trying to make “happy little trees” of thorn bushes, gnarled and steadfastly holding their ground. I would imagine that’s more what my soul looks like, than anything else. Sans happy lil trees.
I must admit that this life I live has taken on darker shades recently. I spend whole days feeling like a child lost in the wilderness. Only no one is trying to find me. Most don’t even realize that I’m missing, at all. It’s not their fault. I can complete a canvas by the time they’re finished saying, “Hello.” Very few people ever notice. The ones who do often suffered under the tutelage of the same artist, as it were.
As I write these lines, certain memories beg to surface…threatening me with reality. Bullies, they are. And so, I close my eyes and force them deeper into their closet. When I close the door, they are blended away; tossed aside and left to rot amongst the leotards and tutus, and all the findings of a child, unwanted. Like her, they will never be seen again, except by the most discriminating eye.