What does it mean to be an ARTIST?
For so long I was ashamed of her. Scared she might speak too loudly. Afraid of her light. If she stares for too long I begin to lose my breath. Beads of sweat push their way to my temples, my lips part in anticipation of an apology desperate to claw its way out, my jaw starts to clench.
My ARTIST is like a caged animal I’ve left without sunlight. Crying in its own dark corner. Worthy of love and angry for not knowing. Every once in a while I’d throw it a scrap or two. An acknowledgement. A quick outing. A pitiful gasp of fresh air. But with the binds so tightly wound around her neck, ankles, arms, wrists, knees, torso, toes that she barely looks anything at all like a human. She really is an animal.
And I’ve let her waste away. Criminal to my small mind. To my petty wants. To my selfish outbursts. I lash out. And punish. And throw her back into her dark corner. Jealous of her ability to see way beyond my meager vision of grandeur. Envious that no matter how hard I try to shut her up, she still sings the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. Enjoys laughter released from an open mouth thrown to the sky. Persists despite my strongest efforts.
This is what it means to be an ARTIST.