Art is lovely but... so is being alive. No one needs art to survive or to live. Art is an expressive experience not a necessity for any interior of a home or yourself. And it shouldn’t come at the cost of truly being alive. This doll would prefer her favorite Ken and dolls took care of their needs before creating for any reason. She suggests that anyone who bullies others into creation should simply be ignored. That kind of garbage human has no respect or compassion for others. Self care is a priority before creation... because if you can’t manage taking care of yourself or your basic needs then the art you create truly isn’t an extension of you. It’s merely another distraction.
Just remember you always have the ability to transform your life... you decide to change, not someone else. People who try to convince you to live their way usually want something or to use you. Listen to yourself and if you have someone who offers you the chance to put yourself first, instead of the artwork, then you should take it. Don’t trade the people who treat you kindly for those that that treat you poorly. Nothing is worth trading your happiness and well-being for. Love yourself.
Here’s one from the book about being tired of how things are...
Enjoy!
Kisses,
-m.
Things that go without saying
(10-09-2010)
Things that go without saying.
The mornings start out with a feeling of despair, a sense of remorse for last nights actions. Always the guilt remains. Perhaps over the party or the people, however it isn’t necessarily the case. Some of the parties happen to be fabulous and without a doubt the peak of it all. The fabulous people can’t help but fake it, that’s just what they do. I’m not like them, I’m just me. Not cheap enough to let them own me. Guilty for letting them try.
Even this morning when he wasn’t there. Who, is not important. Just that I’m here still. In his bed, wearing his shirt and reading his tiny notes that apologize by leaving breakfast. It’s in the kitchen. Don’t worry, stay as long as you like. I can’t help the weight that sits in my chest like an anchor pulling me down.
The panic attack hits at 6am during my shower. Heart races like it can’t catch up to the rest of my body as I continue to wash the night off of me. Wash that man right out of my hair along with the 12-hr party the smoke, the drinks, and Johnny C’s blood off of my elbow. Water can cleanse my body, but not my cold dark soul. And there’s nothing to be done about my Cavalli dress with a line of Johnny C’s blow smeared across the breasts and the countless cocktails that fabulous Reggie dropped across my lap while talking to the Countess Jessica Grant.
The darkest moments are after I’ve spent the night out with a man who doesn’t know me, doesn’t love me and doesn’t want to. A man who leaves breakfast before slinking out the door, back to his life, maybe his wife, maybe his girlfriend, back to his real.
Even more revealing is that these are the things, the very REAL things I keep to myself. The pieces of raw, vulnerable me the boys will never know or ask to know. The pieces that I choose to leave behind. The moment I cross the threshold into the party begins the transformation. Put on the best FAKE. Keep it clean. Lift your chin slightly to the right. Now act natural. Posing for the imaginary camera. The one that scrutinizes every little detail that’s wrong. One false move and you are considered bitter. Ungrateful. Tired. Get out of the way. Someone is waiting to take your place.
She can have it. Let her. Maybe I’m bitter. Or ungrateful.
Knowing that when I return back to these quiet moments alone I can remove my smile, the insincere fraud, like it was a soiled dress. Then comes the dreading for the next time when perhaps I once again won’t have the strength to say no. My hand wipes away the steam coated mirror and leaves me staring at the stranger in the mirror. The haggard woman that drinks too much, talks too loud and moves about the party just because it’s what is expected. Coming face to face with the reflection that my life feels out of control and I want out. But I don’t know how.
My towel wrapped hair and I walk through his wardrobe. Vintage Louboutin heels in the three different colors. He didn’t always live alone. She left her Chanel boots from three seasons ago and faux leather wrap. These tiny remnants of a former ‘someone’ lay at rest among his suits and jackets, demolition denim and t-shirts, watches and shoes. He probably doesn’t know. This reveals more about him than he could ever say. She probably thought maybe I’ll come back someday. And he just didn’t notice.
At least I’ll have fresh clothes. That makes up for breakfast. Not impressive without the company. Why couldn’t he be out getting coffee? I don’t like waking up alone. Yet I choose to. Notes are getting old now. Yet I accept them. At least he’s the same no one important leaving me notes and breakfast. Consistency is better than just anyone. It appeases the feelings of guilt. And the boots don’t hurt.
These boots, the clothes, the notes, the breakfast all come after the fabulous night. Mornings all alone filled with things that I’ll never say. Things that no one will ever ask to know. Things that they don’t care to know. They’ll never know the guilt, the contempt, or the disgust. What they’ll see is the ensemble, the smile and the best piece put forward.
This used to be the life… maybe I want a new one. This is something that I’ll never say.
