artist

In Time

When you’re a creative soul, you can’t help but be your worst critic.

Can you help when you look back at old stories, poems and the times where you just wrote. You can only grimace by how lackluster it is. Can you help when you’re an artist and your old paintings are hidden in attics or stashed away in storage because they just wouldn’t sell? They spoke to you. Can you help when you’re a performer and the recollection of a past performance haunts you? You cried when you left the stage.

I critique as a way to become better — to unleash creativity that hides in small spaces of my skeleton, the kind that harbors until it is discovered. I critique to feel whole again — to know that I am human and I have something to reach for and find that part of me that needs to grow.

When pen meets paper, when fingers brush keyboards or pencils scratch at old napkins, I can’t help but remind myself of the writer I was and the writer I am and the writer I’m becoming and the writer I’ll never be….

Can I help it when I look back and read what I’ve written and I can’t help but be reminded of my past? And is it my fault that all I want to read is my future?

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Summer

Her eyes tried to focus on the spreadsheet that was opened up on her laptop, but she was too anxious. Her heart fluttered and she felt lightheaded every time she looked at the time. She tried focusing on each cell, slowly adding data to the columns, avoiding the righthand corner where the clock ticked. Her lunch break was coming up and she knew she would have to talk to him.

Kiss me hard before you go*

After she saved her document, she saw him stand up and walk over to her desk and heard him say he was going to get lunch, as expected.

Summertime sadness

“Are you coming with me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

They walked to his car and drove to a sandwich shop the town over. The radio played softly, but it was loud enough to drown out the beating of her heart which she was sure he could hear.

I just wanted you to know

 He pulled into a parking spot and turned off the car. She started to get out and he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Wait,” he whispered.

She looked at him, and waited.

“I just want you to know that I care about you. But this opportunity is what I need, and I have to take it. I’m sorry,” he paused. “What we have is special, but this is all I can give. You deserve more.”

“I understand, really, don’t worry about me,” she forced a smile on her face.

They got out and ordered sandwiches, the same way they did every Thursday. Except it was the last Thursday he was working in the office, and she never saw him again.

 That baby you’re the best

* “Summertime Sadness” Lana Del Rey, Born to Die