A line from my journal “the black rose blooms like a bruise beneath her fingertips.”
I’m feeling run down and burnt out by the house move, job stress, and recent violence. I sat in bed the other night and painted this on my skin. I accidentally spilled a container of ink, so I also have turquoise all over the sheets and one leg. Fortunately Rose is now familiar with the oddities of living with an artist and didn’t turn a hair. I, in the other hand, felt like I could breathe again, just for a moment, little snatches of feeling alive. I’m buried by self hate, fear, an empty feeling that haunts me, a sense that all my life has been laid out before me and there is nothing new, no hope or joy or excitement to be found in it. I feel bound by roles, silenced and unable to break out of expectations (I should be happy, I should be happy). Ink on my skin breaks the story, helps me walk a different path. For the rest, I’m being patient. All the panes have been knocked out of alignment, out of sync out of kilter. They’ll come back.