The past few weeks consisted of nothing but these two things. But at this exact moment, I am scared. I’m scared I’ve invested too much of myself in Art.
I’ve read once that when you become an artist, all mediums open up to you. I feel like I’ve been spreading myself thin over all of these creative pursuits and that there’s nothing left for me to express.
I feel like a flat, uninspired pancake in dire need of maple syrup.
So today, I’m trying something new.
File this under "meaning to". Also filed under "but didn't".
"I don't want people to say I'm beautiful."
"Mommy, stay. Because you're the best mommy." She needed a partner in crime for the pouring. Today, she found one.
I need to do mess better.
There is freedom in being a complete beginner and in saying I have no idea what I'm doing.
Today, I let her win.
"I don't want to play with you." And there it is. Her unexpressed anger and sadness. In my head, I understand it; in my heart, it's a knife, twisted.
"Is it three weeks yet?" I'd told her that Baby Brother was coming in three weeks, three weeks ago. He was due. He was overdue.
There are sentences I know I would never, could never, write. Reading high-end shelter mags, feeling twangs of pen envy.