An Artists Disease

I look in the mirror and see the same face with the same lines, some are deeper but not since the last time I looked.

My clothes are hanging on the back of the door, jeans and a tee that have aged with use. I am proud enough of my body, its athletic build an example of improving from a solid base.

last night was fun, a gathering of friends we shared the crudites of middle age, pushed many boundaries and laughed. We laughed a lot but then we always laugh a lot.

Last year I sold a million books, I hate that book. It makes my skin peel to think I wrote it, I wish I could rid it from my memory. Like a broken relationship but worse, I can’t learn from it, I can’t get stronger, I can’t move on.

Inbetween every line a drop of emotion lies, each chapter is shaped like a jigsaw puzzle piece. Hours, days no, weeks of trauma forged unique perspectives, the personality fed from my soul until it sporned a life of its own.

Pedantic patient revision and judicious editing finalised its copy, the hardcover, only symbolic in this modern age, set me free to love it as my own which I did for exactly 9 days.

The critics are right it truly is beautiful but thats the problem. Everyone loves it, its no longer unique or quirky but popular and heralded.

Success was in its completion, it worked. No amount of financial return can change that. I can’t change that just as I can’t change me.

They want a squel, they want me to dress differently, they stick cameras on me, drive me around in cars, demand my opinion on everything.

I was happy before this world overtook me. This piece of art has ruined my peaceful existence. Someone else can gladly have my 15 minutes

My wall is you my friend, your smile is always there looking back at me. Your eyes the only ones I can trust. Together my friend, together.

 

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