Late

It all seems so repetitive. Art is a mystery; an ever-changing mystery, and once I knew how to understand it, manipulate it, express it... But I've lost that, I've lost it along with the naivety  I used to treasure so much.

The shoebox beneath my bed is full of letters, unsent, unread. So many words, phrases, conflicts. So much of that mysterious art I no longer know how to interpret. They send me letters, they give me presents, they flaunt their skills and beg me to critique them. But no. I can't. For my own skill has been used and used again, and I've fallen off the cliff and shattered on the rocks.

And I've got twenty minutes to try once again to force my talent back onto the page and make it into something that maybe someone can understand. Just maybe.

Those little paper daggers do little damage, and my little paper bandages cover those burns in vain. I never write back; what would I say?

"I love this style of yours."

"My style is like the shape of my face. I had no part in its design. It is strange that you would compliment me for something I did not create."

"What inspired this incredible piece?"

"What sort of question is that? If I told you what went through my mind when I started it, you would laugh and wink at me. If I told you what I was thinking when I ended it, you wouldn't understand. I don't write about what inspires me. I write what I feel."

"Give me ideas, tips, anything."

"I have no new advice. I am not a god. All I have are the words of any skilled person: do it again and again and again, even when you are sick to the stomach of this never ending chore. It is impossible to love without some irritation."

"Talk to me."

"About what? Silence is a better choice. Go practice your dreaded chore and come when you have words and seek disregard."

"I want your attention."

"My mind is full."

And the ink flows back into those cheerfully white envelopes, and the smell of coffee entices the work of the lazy. Thoughts are a tedious chore and I don't know why I try anymore. Why do I try?

Because words are the only thing that frees me when I am alone. When everyone else has gone to sleep or gone to work, and I must make angels in my mind to keep me company, just so I can spend one more night without tears. They glue me back together when I fall off the shelf and all the king's horses and all the king's men shy away at my broken body. I break into so many shards that I don't know how to make this puzzle work anymore... loneliness makes a garden out of everything I am missing.

And yet it is so temporary. Sometimes I still just want a hug.