I think about things that I would be better off not thinking about.
I fear things that I do not understand. I love things to which I have grown accustomed.
I used to wake up in the morning with a prayer in one hand and thoughts in the other.
Now, I wake up in the morning with one hand empty. Some days, both.
Perhaps I do suffer from a quarter-life crisis.
I wouldn't be surprised; I insisted on it for the past two years.
The
discipline, which took years to develop and refine, somehow has slipped
away. To where, I am uncertain. Maybe the twelve months of botched
attempts to become more than my circumstances were too much to bear, so
she upped and left.
That is not to say I am done with any and all of . . . this.
I
am older, yes. And while I may have lost some of the brilliance,
wonderment, and factual retention from when I was younger, I would like
to believe those were traded in so that I may gain wisdom.
There
are more individuals than there are few who believe painting is
futile. More specifically, abstract painting. However, this expression
runs further than the ignorance that hinders its receptivity. It is
honest work.
Being a painter is no picnic. But, for this lifetime, it is my picnic.
I will do what it takes to make the most of each moment.
