I like drinking coffee alone, and reading alone.
I like riding the bus alone, and walking home alone.
It gives me time to think, and set my mind free.
I like eating alone, and listening to music alone.
But when I see a mother with her child;
A girl with her lover;
Or a friend laughing with their best friend;
I realize that even though I like being alone
I don’t fancy being lonely.
and in these dreams, I paint an ideal person. And in this person, I paint a familiar face. A face of someone that once had relevance in my life, but has now strayed away from what used to be a beautiful thing. And behind this face, there’s everything that used to be right with this person, and nothing that was wrong. And in these dreams, I am happy.
I wish I could elaborate on that happiness, but it is too unreal. Painting these perfect pictures of ones that once had significance in my life is both pointless and saddening. Pointless because a person will never have only rights and no wrongs, and saddening at the realization that I have now woken up from such a blissful place. And when I do wake up, I ask, “why do I torment myself?” Though I don’t know the answer to this question, I do know one thing. If I knew why I subject myself to self-torment, I wouldn’t be writing this.
I have these dreams. And in these dreams, everything is right, and nothing is wrong. I am a painter, and these are my masterpieces. Blah.