Sometimes I think that I live in an emotional void in which only writing helps me escape. When I meet people and they inquire, “How are you?” I try to be polite. I usually reply with a smile, “I’m well, thank you. How are you?” I paint pages with words to express what I’m really feeling inside. It helps me to tell the truth. It keeps from doing something crazy like running nearly naked from my house one night in a fit of misery. I don’t want to give in to the idea that there will be no romance.
I don’t want this void to be my home. My solitude has become a narcissistic paradise. Maybe a single brush with adult love would break the spell.
*Painting by Claude Monet
Nympheas Effet du Soir