I think of all the pain and all the paint that came before this.
I find the stinging cuts on my fingertips fall into a pattern, a weave, a rhythm.
The dried paint from last night's session feels like a part of my being under my nails.
I paint over the sunset and the forest and the warmth of my childhood daze.
I feel the hands that cover my eyes asking me to guess who. Guess who? Who are you? "It's just a silly game."
I know who you are.
I don't know yet who I am.
I feel the static rise up from the earth to my toes to my chest and to my head.
I live, you die.
You live, you die.
-nonsensical prose my reflection in the mirror wrote.