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Totally random writing that plagued me today. Here it is:

I bought a big sketchbook today. I said I have big ideas and big dreams I need to put on paper. Yet I stretched every line and made every curve wide. Fill the wide yawning white. There is no looking at what’s being scarred on. Only focus on getting it done. The entire white is marred with lines and curves and shades and brights and yet there is no picture. There is no picture. It’s just a piece. I rip another and try to color in the next part, the next part that was supposed to be on the first. Trying to make it fit, trying to make it fit the first. Yet I draw it too small, the lines thin like toothpicks and the curves too tight. It doesn’t match and I draw a third to look like the first to match the second. Then it goes on until I’m drawing the tenth to match the eighth because the seventh didn’t fill the page. It doesn’t occur to me to draw something new. Something entirely new, something different. Clinging onto this big idea and this big dream that fades away like smoke further and further as I try to grasp it. The constant coloring, the constant attempt to match and I’ve lost the reading in the obscure cards that once told me a secret to my future in which I could break glass ceilings and snap old dusty books with my stiletto, the secret to making one kiss slip into the next kiss and the next endlessly yawning like the ocean among a horizon, and the dashes to the fears that I would fade like the shadows who run from the sun. Moving canvases to the walls, the floor, the ceiling, sketching and stretching, breaking my arms and my legs trying to reach up and over to draw this ragged line from one end to the other, trying to make it all connect. And when I can’t take it anymore, I draw tiny. I fill in the cracks between each mistake and each imperfection, squeezing all the details of my big idea into the small space between gaps that the ink blots and bleed and the tiny just hurts my eyes. The tiny just hurts. And I curl small, smaller, trying to smash my fingers down and fold in my legs so I can be small like Thumbelina and this tiny image can seem big to me. It doesn’t even register that I could’ve left the room despite the knockings of a door I’ve locked and won’t open or the break in of the window that seems to shrink. Even when bleeding hands and arms, broken skin from the wood they’ve broken down or the glass they’ve tried to brush away like dust, grasp me I’m incapable of moving because I’m trying to listen to the whispers of the reminders of my smoky dream. Fallen into the siren song and drowned by the mermaid of a Dead Sea where witches pull out cards they tell me to cut.