This photograph can bleed from my hand, then watch it twist me

Studying this photograph I can see where you raked your nimble fingers through your hair in place of a comb.

Closed my eyes before putting pencil to paper and sighed. Some longing, fanciful sigh. Impatient for change of locale, impatient for change of everything. Distance does my head in, so do time zones.

Scratch, scratch, scratch; lead upon paper goes.

I will always be a dreamer. Even when my big plans come to fruition I’ll be conjuring up something ever greater. Gotta stay ambitious but I also gotta learn to love this moment. And I will, I promise. I just can’t love something that throws me under the bus, so to speak. I don’t wanna be roadkill anymore, got more to live for now than ever before.

Flat edge of my right hand looks like I smudged it on the moon’s surface. It’s shimmering, silver, metallic, it looks star struck. Maybe I dipped it into Mercury while I was sighing or maybe the Mercury dipped into me and that’s why I’m so mad. Just like The Hatter waiting for Alice.

Seeing my fingers as pencil extensions as though I am one with the implement, I suppose graphite is my instrument. I play it gracefully and lure an image from the pages. Ephemeral lines sure to be erased and redrawn and erased again for I am unsure as to whether or not I want the world to see them. Yet.

Shading all your shadows with appropriate depth and attempting to do your pout justice. It’s just not possible to pull life from those eyes and force it onto this 2D field, I feel like it’s unfair.

But now this drawing is done, finished, so what do I do with it?

That’s always been the thing about my visual art, the best pieces are wholly private. Completed only to be tucked away in some silver-fish proof folio.

My hands are always left aching from gripping the pencil with too much zeal, eyes wishing to eat from the image appearing before them. Hungry for the result then left starved every night when it has come to conclusion but nothing is served on the table.

I am always abed with pencil shavings and ideas that didn’t work out, never with another warm body. For all the late pictures I have drawn and discarded I am sorry. You could have been great were it not for my hands.

I had been studying this photograph of you for hours to get all your angles perfect, each brow hair in its specific place and we’re back to that pout again. It was hard to concentrate because the Mercury in my system was wanting me to press myself through the screen of my macbook to get a better look.

So it was scratch, scratch, scratch then came so close to crinkle, crumple, tear.

I suppose that’s what it’s like to be a creative soul, you stare into the eyes of your creation for so long you begin to hate it. See all it’s flaws, all it’s ugliness and then you peer into the mirror and those feelings ring true of yourself, too. You’re all too revolting, grotesque and disgusting to gaze upon so you break all the glass in your house hoping never to catch your own reflection again.

And then an awful thing happens, you become deluded in yourself but not the world around you and so all the plants die in your garden. All the colour fades from your surroundings and you’re in the dark. No wait, you are the dark.

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