Sometimes the paint won't come, there is no flow. I'd like very much to begin again.
Not the painting.
I remember working on an art project that was going really well until somehow, I managed to spoil the overall effect with black charcoal - way too much to salvage. Days of work went down the pan.
Throwing clay, the wheel spinning faster and faster as I drew the pot upwards, creating something out of nothing. One slip and the pot folded inwards, splitting, collapsing, returning to a soggy mass - Or - worse still, a unique form placed tenderly in the kiln, shattered from overheat. Not enough glaze.
Perhaps it wasn't the glaze.
Overwork(ed) Under work(ed) We've all been there. Not enough. Too much. When would be a good time to stop do you think or even to begin? At what point are we content before content becomes spoilt?
Every now and then at work, punters will lean forward and speak to me conspiratorially as if we shared secrets. Sometimes, I allow this to happen as it pleases them. Once in a while I don't if it does not please me. It is presumptuous and intrusive, my own fault for inviting this type of behaviour. Theirs, for misreading the signs.
Occasionally, they will ask for my name.
Why? I want to say. You have what you came for why do you need more? People always want more. I smile and answer hating them as they store this precious knowledge ready for use next time.
With every smile I sell my soul and take another step away from who I intended to be telling myself this was a good day. The customers were happy, I balanced my till, the kids were collected and dinner was made. A good day.
Could you pass me the crimson - thanks. I love mixing these rich colours with the darker ones, see how vibrantly they sit on the pallet, like freshly spilt blood. I must work quickly before they fade and spoil. They tend to dry out if not properly applied.
I knew a girl with long brown hair and clear eyes who was not afraid of the world before she tripped and fell in the trenches of life. I look for her in the mirror but she hides in the shadows laughing. I call out for her but it's no use, she will not come. Hers is a world beyond reproach. I search for the gifts she laid out for me and try to follow but the trail runs cold.
Vermilion - just behind you.
Only the smallest amount is required, the lightest stroke. A breath, no more.
Do you see?
Take it then.
Take my creation before I ruin it.
For we were beautiful once.