I’ve observed that most all creative have more than one creative outlet they practice and indulge in…..
Some of the things I enjoy are :
Painting (my art is sold in a public store)
Playing musical instruments
Cooking (before the fire)
Gardening (before fire)
Creating a beautiful home (before fire)
And of course, sexuality (also before fire)
I’m now the girl in the box. Trapped inside. A large, upright, steel coffin with a small sliding pane in front. I still see things going on right in front of me, but I can’t participate in them… I can’t escape this seemingly self-made prison, but is it really self made? Situations, circumstances far beyond my control have spun me around on my axis…. I look through the pane and peer out from inside my coffin. I don’t know what is going on all around me. I can hear muffled sounds, but I don’t have a clue who they are coming from or what they are about! Some days, I focus more, and I’m able to make out a few of the words, but never enough to actively participate or even warrant an advisable opinion. I’m bleeding out, day by day inside of this coffin. Nothing as kind as a quick death will bless me…
Out of breath… Nausea setting in. I smell the desperation seeping out of my pores… Is it desperation or my own piss I’ve been standing in for days? Maybe I should put on some lip gloss… You know what they say about putting lipstick on a pig.
Fuck self pity. It goes beyond that when you are trapped inside of a coffin. How can you break out of something without any windows, made totally of steel, and is barred from the outside? You can’t ask for help, because that would mean that someone on the outside might look inside of the coffin and see just how horrible it really has become…. Someone would see the filth… The decay. The truth. And as long as the lights stay off, and the door stays locked, I keep some form of respect. Sure people know I’m locked in the box… They approach the open pane, but everyone knows a d respects the coffin. It is as if they think they too will become trapped inside this box of wasted life if they’re not careful. Many want to open the door… Weld the door off of the hinges, but what’s the point if I beg and scream for them to leave it alone… To leave me alone…..
And then I look out into the world through my pane of.. Nothing… My PAIN of nothing… And remember that I too, used to live outside this time capsel… Things change inside the capsel. They age, expire, and are more often than not, forgotten about….