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475 pages, Kindle Edition
Published December 29, 2023
In the beginning, it had been obsession at first sight. But over the years, when other emotions, volatile emotions, came into play, I finally got a true grasp on what I was feeling. Love. It had always been love; I just didn’t recognize it for what it was.
To mask my shock at having been struck dumb by a girl for the first time in my life, I’d come across a little too cold. A little too uninviting. Her too-bright smile had dimmed a fraction, and I’d felt like the biggest shit on the planet. I mean, it wasn’t her fault that every time she looked at me, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Well, maybe it was, but I knew it wasn’t intentional.
Sitting my pallet down, I cock my head to the side and observe what I’ve created with a critical eye. I do this after each piece, sometimes going back to correct something or make a change where I see one’s needed. Not this time, though. This time, I leave the painting as is. As Vessel would say, if there are mistakes, they’re perfectly misaligned. I wouldn’t change a thing about it. It’s raw and real, possibly one of the most gripping things I’ve ever created.
As I sit and stare at what will be a finished piece once I’ve glazed it, what stares back at me is my own heart. Not some cheesy cartoon thing but an anatomically correct heart. And it’s broken, the tendons inside easily visible through the layers. There they sit, snapped and disintegrated, taking what should’ve been a normal, beating thing and replacing it with something that’s withered away and damaged. It takes me several moments of staring transfixed at the broken threads to realize that I’m crying. Tears stream down my face, and if the wetness on my paint-splattered apron is any indication, I must’ve been crying for a good portion of the time I was working. This has happened once or twice before, but this time feels different. Sometimes, I’m so overwhelmed by what I’m feeling that when I’m finally finished with a piece, the release of emotions is almost cathartic, and I’m left blissfully empty.
Unlike those times, however, this time, I still feel everything. Why can’t I just feel nothing? Surely feeling empty is better than whatever this is? This is agony... How is it possible to feel so much pain over an organ that isn’t even really mine anymore? Like a ton of bricks hitting me in the face, I realize that what’s on that canvas is an accurate representation of what currently resides within me, and if it beats at all anymore, it no longer beats for me. Maybe it never did.
Once I’ve applied the glaze and the painting dries fully, I’ll pack it up and have it sent to Merrick’s apartment. It’s only fitting that the copy be delivered to the thief who stole the original.
Most people, when they view art, whether it be classic or modern, see the price tag and base the piece’s worth on that alone. More discerning eyes will look at a painting and critique the methods used, brush strokes, and use of color. My system for assessing the worth of any type of art is simply how it makes me feel. What emotions does it invoke? What memories does it pull from my mind that make it more relatable to me? Some pieces cause pain, while others imbue you with joy. The emotions felt are different for everyone, and that’s why art is so subjective. It speaks to each person differently.