Creativity.
I’m so tired, I had to make my aching fingers, wilted hands and befuddled brain turn on my iPad and make an attempt to tap away at another diary entry. I’m exhausted.
For the first time in what feels like an age, I painted for 4 hours straight, on the floor of my bedroom, uncomfortably repositioning my body over and over again, never finding comfort. My wrist still has a deep crease in it, from leaning to one side, repeatedly, uncomfortable. Chips of magenta paint staining the crevices of my nail beds, I got some on my cardigan. It’s oil paint, such a bitch to get out. Damn. Maybe it’s violet?
My back arched over, now aching the way tedious work seeps down deep into the bone, knots and kinks now ricochet through me as I trudge though menial tasks towards the night.
The work I made was good, it was good work, the paint flowed fiercly, and more importantly I knew where to stop. Knowing when a painting is done is as important as painting itself, it’s a lesson I don’t usually trust and often dive deep into overdone territory. Hense all the bad paintings.
It’s a good painting.
The price for a good painting is a monumental headache, pulsing behind my right eye, admittedly I didn’t keep myself as hydrated as I should of. The price of a good painting, means neglecting the body of its most important nutrients. Does a Lion Bar count as lunch?
Creativity has been spewing out of me, pouring out across the canvas, until drained and dry. Creativity killed me today. And it will kill me again, tomorrow.
