I am in flux again. It's a handicap.
You don't hear me sighing as I resolve to offer these anyway, even if I've disowned them. An extremely short time ago they were more significant than air. Now they are a memory of a feeling. Too many generations from the original impetus makes them my lost little bastards - my orphans.
Ha! I heard you, subconscious! Trying to make that quiet little promise not to destroy them. How on earth will I keep that promise given my proclivity to destruction? Some part of me is afraid I'll regret chucking them. Or maybe I'm just saddened because I know their fate is in my future guilty hands.
I must not take myself too seriously. Surely there is a person being tortured by more than this somewhere else in the world. Surely there is something more important I could be obsessing about again today besides what's inside. There has to be something outside myself that matters as much if not more. Not the laundry, not my airquotes real job, but something.
These paintings, though, these posers (imposters?)...what inspiration they were at first! What heady science their construction! What in hell happened to my fickle heart to make me turn my traitorous back? Nevermind. The important thing now is to own up to them. "These are mine."
No. Worse: "These are me.
Or maybe they're just my guts.
See more guts and abandoned wreckage strewn about at evmarinucci.com if you will.
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