3rd August, 2025 , 4:12am, studio floor, cold tea beside me
Haven’t slept. Again. I lay on the floor half the night listening to the neighbour upstairs procreate or cry or both. Thin walls. Intimate architecture. I stared at the ceiling and thought about how I used to believe that art could save me. Now I think it just holds my hand while I drown.
Worked on the triptych – if you can call standing in front of it with a brush and no plan “working.” Painted over the second panel completely in black. It was a figure before. Maybe me. Maybe someone I don’t talk to anymore. Maybe it doesn’t matter. The black looks cleaner than the mess I covered. Honest, at least.
It rained at some point, I think. The air is damp and the streets below smell like diesel and wet paper. I opened the window to let it in. Let it all in. Somewhere a fox screamed like a baby. Reminded me of the city: beautiful, feral, starving.
Found one of Dad’s old voicemails by accident while clearing phone space. Didn’t listen. Couldn’t. Just seeing the waveform was enough. Deleted it. Regretted it.
There’s a growing crack in the wall behind the easel. It’s inching toward the ceiling like it’s trying to escape. I keep staring at it like it might spell something eventually. Like the wall is trying to say what I can’t.
I made a tea at midnight and forgot about it. It’s still sitting by the window, untouched and gathering flies. Everything I touch lately goes cold before I’m ready.
The painting’s still unnamed. The gallery kid from Berlin emailed again,called my work “visceral” and “urgent.” Said it reminded them of “post-collapse identity.” What? A collapse? I don’t remember building anything.
Anyway. The light is coming in now. Grey, thin, unforgiving. Time to pretend I have a routine. Maybe I’ll call it “Morning, Again”.
X
