Some nights before I decide to fall asleep, I imagine that the next day I’ll be in some terrible car crash. I’ll wake up in a hospital with my right hand amputated. That way I can just blame never having an art career on the accident. And never have to face the fact that I let so much go chasing something that I wasn’t even skilled enough to have. I’m letting her get away. My greatest fear is knowing that I’ve lost the girl I love even before I’ve had a chance to really know her. I paint so much because I’m literally ripping out sonatas of color and texture to try to get her to look at me just a little while longer before she moves on. It’s all in my work; if you look close enough and find the truth amongst the overwhelming contradictions and lies I leave behind. A text is all the contact I can allow her to give me at this moment. “Hi, how are you?’s” mean so much more when spoken by her. “I’m Fine, how are you?”
Prose