The Self Preservation of a Mad Artist in Her Prime

And just like that, an era comes to an end. Isn’t it funny how it comes together and it comes apart. You can stare and stare ahead, squinting into the middle of the picture you created, trying to desperately see it for what it is. And then your eyes, in defeat, glance away outside of the frame. You look around, and you’re changed. Glancing back into that picture, you see it with true clarity for the first time. You see the flaws, the beauties, the tragic, subtle sadness in the colors and the forms. You love it fully for the first time, because you aren’t trying to understand it, you aren’t trying to own it.
You’re comfortable admiring from a far.

And just like that, an era comes to an end. You hang it in the back of your heart with the others and try to collect your courage. You try to convince yourself it wasn’t much of a masterpiece, anyway.

In the meantime, you think grateful thoughts. You walk with poise and purpose. You wear waterproof mascara and you write. You write silly analogies that confuse and annoy others.

And you don’t care. Because if you can’t paint, you’ve got to do something, after all, you are a mad artist in her prime.
Revel in it. Sweat it. Sing it. Kill it. Just don’t let it lie.