I want to write something really wonderful and inspiring or maybe even something wonderful and heartbreaking, but I just don't have it in me.
Today drained me. It sucked. I have a headache. I'm sick of everything. And I'm tired. It was my day off, but I did anything but relax. Tonight though, after V. left for a meeting, I did, however, make a whopping bowl of fresh salsa in order to use up all the vegetables that have been sitting in a bowl threatening to lose their beauty. I was home alone. Music playing loudly. I opened up the cellophane of a fortune cookie that was hidden at the bottom of all those tomatoes, cracked it open, and was nearly in tears before I knew what hit me.
The fortune cookie read: "You will have wealth." Funny how 4 little words can evoke such a strong and unexpected response. Wealth takes many forms, money being only one of them, but damnit if a whole day's worth of stress didn't seem to tumble out of that cracked cookie and land on the counter in a pool of white formica and music.
Last time I opened up a fortune cookie, it read: "You will be doing something new at work." And the best part is that it came half-way true. But within the next week or two I'll be starting a second job working at a flower shop, doing the same thing I've done most of my life. All things considered, it's not a bad job by any means. Still, the heavy strings of dread have been following me around like a sick dog. I've been holding all this disappointment quietly inside of me while, meanwhile, carrying the weight of V's stresses, too. This is why I am tired and angry. Or maybe it has nothing to do with anything except that all the things I really want to do aren't happening or can't happen (until I finish my degree). I'm standing here with my arms and heart wide open, asking God or the universe, or empty sky: "Hey Universe, will you help me?" And then I'm very specific about my intentions, but open too. And, good god, all I feel like I'm doing is treading water or running in place, and slipping, slipping further and further away from all the things that I would rather be doing, that I want to be doing.
I've been listening to Vienna Teng's Dreaming Through the Noise every night for the past couple weeks. I listen to it over and over and over.
I've never felt so lost in my life.
In other thoughts, I got an idea for another series of paintings while cutting tomatoes. (note to self: large scale portraits of normal people (or very strange people) superimposed onto conflicting/contrasting environments.) 2 months and I've barely painted a thing. Having to walk past my studio to get to the laundry room, I feel the sharp tug on a nearly daily basis. There is a part of me that feels neglected and dying.
I'd like to be an optimist, but when did everything become such a sad, ridiculous struggle?