6th August, 2025 , 11:39pm, studio, lights off
Three days without touching a brush. I keep circling the canvas like it owes me something. It doesn’t. None of them do. They just sit there, waiting,silent, judgmental, blank in all the places I’m not brave enough to fill.
I went outside today. Big mistake. Too many people pretending it’s not all falling apart. Couples with oat milk lattes. Dogs with better posture than me. I sat on the bench across from Tescos and watched a kid draw with chalk on the pavement. He made a house with no door.
Saw a man busking under the railway bridge. He was singing something old and cracked and full of loss – maybe Dylan, maybe just his own stuff. He didn’t have a guitar case out for cash. Just played. No one stopped. I gave him a coin. He nodded like it hurt.
Back home, I tried to write an artist statement. Couldn’t get past the first sentence. “My work explores…” explores what? Failure? Disappearance? The long slow ache of staying alive? I don’t know how to talk about it without lying. I don’t know how to live it without bleeding.
My bank sent me a “wellness newsletter.” Tips for mindfulness. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. It feels cruel coming from a company that charged me £15 for being too poor. I laughed for longer than I should have. There was no joy in it.
Jules messaged: “You vanished.”
I typed: “No one noticed.”
Didn’t send. Deleted it and wrote: “Sorry. Been painting.”
She replied: “Of course you have.”
I stared at that for hours.
Still haven’t titled the triptych. I thought about calling it “Things I Meant to Say Before the Roof Caved In.” Too long. Too true. I’ll probably just leave it untitled. Like the rest of my life.
Anyway. The moon’s out tonight. Looks like it’s eavesdropping.
