The Invisible Artist...
I lay on the cold floor of my small gallery. It's walls were the sunshine that I didn't get to see much very often. I painted every day. I was too busy for vitamin D.
My father visited me twice and my elder sister came a few times too. Their presence sometimes felt like painting an afternoon blue sky. Clear of vicious heat or winds.
Something about them had my creative side conquering my inner chaos. It can never be the same with anything else I create. Only they could trigger my softer side to trickle into my canvas.
And a canvas would be anything even our very own garbage bin while growing up. I would like to call 'them' the good old days but that would be a lie.
That was before my soul found art. Art saved me a couple of times.
As I still lay there on the cold floor of my small gallery, I scaled my achievements against society's expectations on one hand and self incapacitation on the other. I could feel my shoulders creaking on the low knowing all too well I counted as a huge failure.
I just never seemed to fit in anywhere. My dad said that free minds don't like to be bound by societal norms. I was the gayest anyone can ever be. The studded tomboy. Girls exicted me and according to the good book that made me a filthy sinner.
end of five minutes
I could never wash off clean the disappointed stares on the streets. Didn't repent enough to be accepted at the local church. I stood out invisibly. The child well behaved children got warned about.
So when I moved in into my small gallery and the lonely four grey walls accepted me and my unfiltered pain and sometimes the residue of denied rainbowed moments plus a few of the beautiful afternoon skies,I was bought.
But the unfiltered pain grew into these meddling voices that won't just seem to shut up!
And the food had gotten a little stale. The wait to go see birds one last time took longer than the need was prepared to play patient. The soul was giving in to giving in.
My tired bones begged for a rest. That is why I laying on the cold floor of my small gallery.
Then my eyes thought of resting from staring at my own artwork and partial white ceiling. Just to forget where I was really and try to accept the truth.
My participation in the ever amazing @mariannewest's five minute freewrite prompt.
BQ.
