The shy artist is something of a paradox. A combination of intense desire to share everything intimate and internal, and the extreme fear of doing so.
There are shy artists. I admire them in ways.
But I admire more the James Camerons, the Steve Jobs', the Kanye Wests. The profoundly unshy. The willingness to show emotion.
When I was thirteen, my father died, and with him my willingness to allow others to see my emotions. I tried my best to stay strong for mother and sister. Perhaps too much, or too well. Perhaps I seemed too detached.
But now I'm a man of shells. I don't want anyone beyond a certain layer.
But I'm an artist. My single greatest asset is the ability to put emotion into art. And yet I run from them. From emotion.
I've woken up from my own night terrors many times over the past month. I don't know where they come from. I don't know if they even qualify as night terrors. The dreams are sweet. While I exist in them.
I haven't dreamed, or remembered my dreams regularly, since I began my love affair with marijuana.That's years of sleep without the pain of what sleep used to be.
Sleep used to be the pain of knowing I was going to fall asleep, dream that my father was alive, and believe it, only to wake up having the feeling of losing him again. He was just back. I had just seen him walk through the door in my mind's eye. We talked, and I cried, and begged him "why, why did you go away, where were you?" Over. And over. And over. From thirteen to twenty two, when I began smoking before sleep. And then the terrors stopped.
My mind couldn't heal from a wound it kept reopening. It would tell me at night that he was back. That it was all a mistake, some surreal mystery, but he was back. And I'd wake and have the wound torn open, and salt deposited. I can't describe belief like that.
So in the past month, they've returned. I'm still smoking. I don't know why it's happening. But they're back. This time though, it's not about my father.
It's love. And it is agony.
I dream these sweet, lovely dreams where I feel love. Not even for the women I still can't stop loving. Just strangers, in these dreams, and I feel love, and as soon as I wake up, it's gone. It's like going from the mental equivalent of a relaxing hot tub to being tossed naked into a snow bank. It's sharp pain, my entire body feels. Pain everywhere.
That removal. My dreams give me these things I forgot I needed back. My father. The love I used to let myself feel. They let me blissfully slip back into these old states of mind as though I still fit them. And perhaps some part of my subconscious still does.
But the waking man feels only the famine of knowing I can't be that man, nor have have those things. He's never coming back. I'm not getting a replacement father figure. It's too late in the game.
I'll never have her back. I don't know if I'll ever even be able to allow myself to feel love with anyone as jaded as I've become. I can't trust. She shattered the part of me that'd fall like a young buck for a set of pretty eyes. He's gone. He sees these pretty women that would've broken his heart, and he just can't care about them. Or feel he could care for them well enough.
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