2008-03-29 @ 6:47 a.m.
I want to write your name on the inside of my eye lids with blue ballpoint pin. I want to have it tattooed inside of my lips. Stitched into the back of my head, beneath the hair. I want to have your name carved into the small soft spot behind my ear lobe, in the smallest of letters. And burned into the soles of my feet. I want it written in all of the places that are mine.
...
I happened to be sifting through my books last week for some reading material until I could get to the book store this weekend, and on a whim I picked up Diary: A Novel, because I couldn't really remember how the story ended. If you haven't read it, I don't even know that I would recommend it, except that Palahniuk really did capture a few sentiments perfectly, but lost in the OH FUCK! ending. Of course the man is a professional writer and is able to articulate some of the more obvious realities (of being an artist) that I simply cannot. Regardless, the book had some haunting similarities to the past 3 months.
Oh, where is Slickasgrace when you need him...
Rather than throwing postcards into Seattle, I am left wondering if I missed my chance now that the headaches are gone. Or can I just submit my life as the greatest failed masterpiece never created?
Sadly, all I have in my head are the huge under takings of one that hasn't. I don't feel like I can do anything that hasn't already been done, not being unique, I shelve the idea. The paintings I like the most all started as mistakes.