That pile, that damn pile, it mocks me every time I walk by it. I wish I could just forget how much this used to mean to me. how much I used to need to create and make the world beautiful with my paint. But now, the paint mocking me on the ground. Too chicken to go near enough to it to clean it up. A part of me wants to keep it there forever, just sitting there reminding me of what I used to be able to accomplish before. My emotions carried me along as I would create, after you died I thought that would be the end, but it was just the beginning, I created some of my greatest work with that pain, but now, the pain subsiding, was never replaced with anything else, and all I have is numbness. Emptiness, nothingness.
I do have anger, but it is directed at me for not picking up those damn paints again. maybe I should just try, fake it till you make it? But no, that would not work for what I want to do. Maybe I should take a class? how would that look, someone like me taking a class on paint. Maybe I should do something else, take photo’s or maybe sketch, but then that damn pile would still be there mocking me, calling me, the ghost of my once great career sitting there doing nothing for me anymore.
I want to go away, I want to stop it all. Maybe one day I will, but for now, I will keep walking by that damn paint, and trying to ignore what it means to me.