“It’s not the struggle that makes us artists, but Art that makes us struggle.” ― Albert Camus
Things are quieter at home now. Everyone is stable.
No more 4 a.m panic at A&E, no more blood on the bedroom floor, no more falling pulse rates, no more crying in pain.
There is time, there is space, there is *quietude* and the *potential* to create.
But I feel nothing.
I’ve come back to a cold and pointless studio.
It’s getting harder to resonate with my creations.
The words and images are there but their souls are diminished. Something *essential* is lost. Something magical is missing.
At some stage then, I thought, this was it:
I’m no longer an artist. Neither poet nor painter.
Just a full time care giver spending my days waiting at clinics, queuing for medicine and waking at 2 a.m to feed my mom pills.
I was okay with all this.
I believe it had *meaning* (filial piety, compassion, patience, Will Of The Lord). It had more *soul.*
I don’t know when my artist child died.
I’ve deleted thousands of words.
Torn up drawings, whitewashed canvasses, burned sculptures in small drains, killed sound art with silence. I’ve stolen mothers’ morphine pills for sleep instead of struggling and scraping for something special to say.
I’ve visited whores for inspiration and intercourse, only to leave with neither.
I feel very alone.
Maybe it’s just a phase.
Maybe it’s time to move on. Maybe, just maybe, that next masterpiece is around the corner, waiting, hibernating, biding its time.
I hope to God that’s true, because this chasm feels *real* and the last thing I want is to fade away, obscured, brushes dry, ink pots crusty, pages – blank and lifeless – as the void inside.
singpowrimo2016day10 #singpowrimo2016 #irvingpaulpereira #singpowrimo2016prompt10