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Me at my table

 

Screenshots of The lost Jockey by René Magritte

It's been aaaaages since I signed up for a class other than sports. Even sports take months of self-talk. But then, blaming one for physical disorientation is like blaming them for having a big nose; Easy to maneuver around. This one's painting & obviously I'm not handling it well. You think you know what your favorite paintings are? Wait until someone asks you to send them your top 5 so they can tailor their class to it. If your answer is right away without a pause 5 paintings, well fuck off! You're not the audience of this writing. I'm talking to those judgmental troubled souls who when asked by a stranger to define themselves in 2 words, 5 paintings or a freaking Kahoot quiz, simply dissolve into an unnecessary state of crisis; Who am I? What if I send the wrong image? What was the name of the guy who painted men with bird heads?...

I've realized despite my best hopes that I am very ordinary - unspecial. Nothing wrong with it. I've come to terms with it & don't mind it as long as not compared. But still every now & then, taking up anything other than eating turns into a scene in my head where my two selves are sitting at two ends of a very long table, one shy & shivering, looking at the new cheap brushes she's bought & quietly, secretly imagining her first solo exhibition -I mean really!- and the other looking at the first with a smirk they're not hiding, saying "Oh! another platform to be average!". 

Why can't I simply enjoy it? Bad question.

Comments

Sudi said…
بنویییییسسسسسسس
January 19, 2022 at 7:09 PM
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