Have you ever spent time drawing a picture, only to realize at the end that its no good.
Hours pour into this creation that while in the making just flowed from me like a river of talent and skill all mixed together rushing down the canvas. It’s perfectly precise to my expectations. Quaint, yet Loud. Subtle, and offensive all at once. I loved it and I cherished it, along with the act of making it.
Until I stepped back.
Then all of the sudden everyone is a critic. “What is that?”
“Did you do that?”
“How long did it take you?”
“Was it difficult?”
The doubt settles in, and I become my own worst critic. Not recalling the joy I felt with each stroke, as I placed a piece of my being on display for the world to appreciate. Instead I take heed the caution of others, too scared to make themselves vulnerable as I have.
“Compared to other works of art” I think, “It’s a mess.”
What a waste of my time, energy, etc.
What was I thinking throwing my life at this empty thing instead of putting myself to good practical use elsewhere? How could I be so foolish, so naive.
I got angry and threw it away, this stupid thing that unnecessarily occupied me. This thing that only I appreciated. How selfish I am for not fulfilling my potential.
But when my friends leave, and its just me and the painting… a beautiful silence fills my ears. I look up at the colors and I fall in love all over again. The current caressing me with its fond memories until I am captivated, All in a matter of moments, too small to put into measurements.
Freed from the waste bin I place it back where it belongs on its pedestal, and continue to paint. My life becoming more vivid and meaningful the more Life I breath into this love of mine. I can’t stop. It consumes me to the point I think of what I will be painting during every other chore I partake. Again I am invested in it, and its return is most plentiful.
Friends take notice in my familiar behavior and realize what’s happened.
“Have you started making art again?” One asks, almost if to sound intentionally rhetorical.
“No,” i reluctantly reply, in fear of past events repeating themselves.
I even make a joke to cover up their suspension.
“Well I’m glad you got away from that, it just wasn’t good for you.” These words echoed down the caverns of my conscience until I could bear it no more.
I rush home and confront my fears. Not looking at it I get angry. My friends have persuaded me I am better off without you. I allow the intimacy of our relationship to be distilled by the utterances of aliens.
I gave up on you, for what, to be alone?
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