It occured to me yesterday that I keep falling in love with the concept of a person rather than the person themselves. And some things are really so much better thought about, spoken about and written about…than actually experienced. I don’t recycle boyfriends and now I think I should stop recycling any sort of good experience or relationship. It’s best to let a lovely memory stay that way…lovely and treasured…than turn it mundane by trying to integrate it into the bruising reality of life.
Is that escapism? I lived through a long period of wanting to see reality, obsessing over it, all of it, as much of it as possible. It was like being left out in a shower of acid rain. Of watching your own skin peel off, your blood flow out, your organs and bones melt away…just to see what lay beneath. There’s nothing more inside all the paraphernalia of real life, other than the capacity to create more.
I’ve had enough of being drenched and worn away by reality. The research is over, it’s time to go back to being an artist. Now I’ll dip my sharp, narrow nib into the ink of reality and create my own lovely perceptions of life.