The house I am creating is beautiful.
I long to be able to venture further than my rooms. But I am trapped within my self made jail. What was once a motivation to complete my task and allow myself the fruits of my labours, has become a taunting entity at my back. Laughing and smirking at my inabilities. Passing comment on the futility of what I am attempting.
The prize I fear I will never obtain.
I long to be able to venture further than my rooms. But I am trapped within my self made jail. What was once a motivation to complete my task and allow myself the fruits of my labours, has become a taunting entity at my back. Laughing and smirking at my inabilities. Passing comment on the futility of what I am attempting.
The prize I fear I will never obtain.
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Most of my recent days I have been focusing on the canvas in my meagre garden. I find myself suddenly drawn to it again in a way that has been long missing. I have produced some of my most meaningful creations and they have sold well to my mysterious collector.
Perhaps this new found lust for life has grown as I myself find that I am older. My hair has greyed and my body tires easily. I feel my life gone in the aches of my joints and I find my mind wandering back to the past. A past that I can barely remember now. A past blurred by the passing of time and the overwhelming silence of isolation.
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