Painting a Picture

Day 51

Today I discovered that even the ice water is hot in hell. The air is as heavy as sand, and every fan you could possibly use just filters the heat back onto you. It’s 112° and I’m coated in sweat; my clothes have taken advantage of my weakness and cling to me tighter then usual with the knowledge that I’m too weak to try and pull them off. I’ve found that boredom is one of the worst forms of torture. At a certain point, there isn’t anything worth doing; and unless you force yourself to stimulate your mind, your brain turns to mush and you no longer care that you haven’t moved in hours. You find your sweltering days slip into illusion filled nights and your dreams become indecipherable. I look out my window at a row of ugly houses that no one dare come out of. Although occasionally, a young man three houses down comes out to smoke. It’s emotionally torturing him; in order to fulfill the constant craving for nicotine he must venture onto the pavement that melts the bottoms of his shoes and hold a flame close to his face until he can pull down a satisfying amount of smoke into his already heavy chest. But every three hours or so, I see him again.
A string of ants trail from my bathroom where they attempt to steal every drop of moisture from the sink. I’ve always found it hard to look at them as living things. I mindlessly crush them with my thumb as they go by. Maybe I’m doing them a favor; they too must feel the heat, and their existence must be painfully boring – it seems as if their minds have already turned to mush, and they don’t care if they live or die because they aren’t intelligent enough to be aware of being. I easily get bored of playing God and begin picking at my fingernails. The red paint I’ve coated them with is chipping off the tips forming jagged, sharp lines that remind me of Andy Warhol.
It seems incredibly mundane to be doing this with my time. It’s the first couple weeks of the rest of my life and all I’ve managed to do is sulk in the hot air that feels remarkably like the breath of a drunken homeless man. I’ve flipped through a couple art books and watched the fantasies melt off of the page; but it only reminds me that I’m not where the painter was when they saw those wonderful things. I think about drawing something, or maybe doing a collage of some sort but the nightmares I’ve been having suck all creative vision out of me; except, for some reason, anything dealing with Alice in Wonderland. Playing cards and neon striped manipulative creatures and tea parties seem to be taking up most of the space in the right side of my brain. It could be worse, however. I could see nothing.

I only need a shot glass of inspiration; presumably, in my current state, one with lots of ice in it. The word inspiration literally means “breathed upon” – and having earlier referenced the air as reminding me of particularly hot breath, shouldn’t the summer bring more artistic inspiration? It at least shouldn’t remove it. But somehow people tend to find things to spark their creativity in every kind of weather, at every location, with whomever they may be near. It’s possible that I may be having such a difficult time because inspiration can’t be sought after; it needs to sneak up behind you, take a step into your bubble, and breathe down your neck until you notice it standing there. Then, if you happen to be having a lucky day, it will wrap its arms around you and start kissing you passionately wherever you may be showing a little skin. It’ll take advantage of the spots you can’t clothe or cover and it will pick open your wounds. But nothing can have the chance of sneaking up on you if you’re looking around in every direction.
I need to be okay with having a little gray in my world or the colors will all be crayon names; forced and contrived. No new colors can be seen amongst a sea of tickle-me-pinks, midnight blues and macaroni and cheese yellows. I just wish my inspiration stalker would hurry up and take advantage of me.