The Artist

2/14/16

I wish I could cry. I’ve seen others do it multiple times. On a screen, in books, in person… hell, I’ve made some people cry.

It looks — freeing.

But I know what I am. I’m not a psychopath or a sociopath or socially inept. I’m ordinary. Utterly Ordinary. I know that. I’m not dumb, but I’m not the smartest. I’m not weak, but I’m not motivated. I’m not lazy, but I’m not driven.

Humans are anchored by their flaws, the things that make them unique. I’ve watched others trip over themselves with these flaws at their hips — idiots.

But where does that leave me? I can’t find a flaw to anchor me. I can’t drown in my own arrogance as they do. I don’t know if that makes me mature or conceited.

3/18/16

Monsters may not be real, but I know what hides in the dark. A monster that swallows everything but my thoughts. A monster that drowns the anchors that keep me whole.

A monster of eternal silence.

I wish that I were a psychopath. I want to feel special, or at least have a reason for the emptiness that accompanies me to bed. But I don’t – i’m not

It’s a quiet emptiness. It doesn’t make itself known, but I know. A quiet that invades. A quiet that drowns the noise that fills me with fear. Because when the darkness comes, the static within learns to strangle.

Where do I go when the noise goes?

3/24/16

Hopefully I’m wrong. Hopefully I’m not broken. Hopefully I exist.

3/26/16

I haven’t laughed in a while. Should I feel concerned? It’s not like I’m talking to anyone.

I’m a painter. I should focus on that. I’ve made a couple of paintings and have posted them online. And that was it for my resume. A pointless dream. A dream that loses the freedom to fly.

The quiet in the house was loud. I inherited this house. A house full of memories. But it’s this house that allows me to paint. What do the whispers amount to in the face of freedom?

4/3/16

I’m sick. I don’t have the energy to pick up my brush, so I’ll have to wait until I get better.

What else is there to do?

I’m tired.

6/24/16

I haven’t painted since. Another blank canvas. More wasted effort. Procrastination should be saved for the things you hate, except I can’t seem to do the things I love. I’ve tried. But my brain won’t function. Why does hate invade the things we love?

Sometimes I just sit in front of the canvas and stare. Not being able to make the first stroke as to mar the canvas.

2/13/17

I’m lazy. I’m tripping myself at the first step and hating myself for it. And there’s no one here to blame.

I haven’t showered in days.

I haven’t seen my teeth.

I haven’t painted.

What does it mean to be a painter? I don’t know what it means, and I don’t think I ever will.

Why do we assign ourselves monikers? Titles? Do we feel the need to fill our lives with self-importance or to force duties upon ourselves?

I don’t know. If I did, I’d know life’s meanings.

Titles always felt more like a weight over my head than the badges of honor everyone seems to wear them for.

Last year, I had a title. Boyfriend. I didn’t even know how to be one. I still don’t. Maybe I do, and I just didn’t want to.

I hurt her last year.

But she hurt me.

3/18/17

Another title lost today, nephew. My aunt was dead. The funeral was full of people. I didn’t know we had so many friends; she probably didn’t either.

Her funeral was an excuse to leave the house, to shower, to be a human. Death is —

4/19/17

I stopped being anything to anyone a long time ago. At some point, I had lost all my titles.

I wasn’t a friend.

A son

A lover

A nephew.

I was barely human.

Were titles burdens, anchors, or responsibilities?

Am I free of my burdens? Should I feel free?

I don’t know?

In death will the last one disappear?

I hope so.

I was 8. Her hands held my shoulders, and her legs brushed against my thighs. I held her. And I helped her. And she smiled.

I was a smart 8-year-old. It wasn’t long before I figured things out. And it wasn’t long before I accepted it. Because I wasn’t a victim, I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t forced.

I liked it.

4/20/17

My parents weren’t good people. I lived my whole childhood trying to understand them. My mother’s words, my father’s fists. But there wasn’t anything to understand, not when I imagined them dead.

They had asked me what happened with my aunt. One hand on my shoulder, serious eyes. And I lied and said nothing. They looked… relieved. Quickly, the hand of support and the consoling eyes felt threatening.

That night, I practiced on myself how I would do it. Hands around my throat, not letting any air escape. And I fell asleep in silence. And I smiled.

They knew what I knew.

And I knew what they know.

But I hope they didn’t know that I knew.

4/21/17

I had friends once.

Mother didn’t like my friends. She’d say they weren’t to be trusted. The only people you could fully trust were family — I hated her for it.

But she was right, you couldn’t trust people.

The first friends I had couldn’t be called friends. I tried my hardest to fit in with them. To laugh when I should, smile where I could. I would laugh with them even if I didn’t understand what was so funny. It took me a long time to realize I was the joke. One sharp punch to the gut made me realize where I stood and where they didn’t. Perhaps I should’ve thanked them for the punch; that was the day I learned trust can be taken away.

I trusted my friends. I had chased after them all the time. I had confided in them. I told them everything except one dark and twisted secret.

When we tell people things, dark things, do we want pity, advice, silence? I don’t think anyone knows. I don’t even know if I wanted them to listen. But they had.

And I told them. I was beaten. I was spat at. I despised my family. I didn’t show them the bruises. I didn’t tell them what I wished to do to them. I didn’t share how I felt about myself. But it was enough that they looked at me, watched me, with those eyes. Attentively analyzing, analogizing my pain.

I understand why I did it then and why we all chose to do it now. It’s trust. People use information like currency. I trust you with my shadows, and in the absence of light, you will chase them away.

That didn’t stop them from breaking that trust. They told who they wanted. They treated my secrets like conversation starters.

Another friend lost.

Another lesson learned.

Trust should be earned, not expected.

Mother was right.

4/22/17

Today is the day.

The day I was born.

The day I hate.

I tried to cry for myself. If anything, today was the day I should. But I couldn’t. No matter how I scrunched up my face, no matter what I thought about, that painful emptiness persisted.

Hopefully, I was broken. Hopefully I’m right. Hopefully, I die.

This is just in place for my unshed tears, not a suicide note; it’ll burn with everything else.

The house filled with paintings, memories, pain, choked back tears, silence, and –

me.