Interior Monologue
And after a thoughtful silence, I said to her, “Why, you must be tired, carrying all those clouds on your back!” Truthfully, it was a strange sight; the billowing mass of something floating above her. She hadn’t seemed to have heard me, so I spoke again.
Music has long since been an integral part of my life. Of course, while it can be a cherished companion, it can also be a hated foe in times of frustration. But it has always been there for me: the feeling of the cello’s strings vibrating as I draw out rich notes is comforting, as if to say, “It’s alright. We’ve got you.”
“I heard you the first time, you know.” That was rude, then, if she had heard and still not replied. Slightly ruffled, I asked what she was doing. “Do you not recognize …show more content…
“I’m afraid I don’t. Have we met?” I said, as something sick coiled in the bottom of my stomach: I was lying. The girl remained silent, and her eyes poured something that I can only describe to you as molten sunlight, the velvety blue of the oceanic deep. I watched in shame as the fading tears formed a pool, showing a glimpse of What Could Have Been.
My diagnosis of scoliosis plunged me into hellish orbit. The despair grew, along with a budding hatred of mirrors--a daily reminder of the distorted thing I had become. As the agony increased, the cello, that had once been an essential part of me, even a source of comfort, no longer symbolized what it had used to. The constant biting pain in my back and other ailments like plagued me day and night: I couldn’t sit or even read for a long period of time.
Eventually, my desperate attempts at rediscovering myself dwindled: Sleep was the only reprieve I had from physical and mental exhaustion. Believing I was nothing and could do nothing, I had forgotten who I was, what I had …show more content…
My first painting came as a shock: for the first time, I saw a visual representation of myself. It was grotesque, to see what I had degraded into. One work became two, and as the days passed, the paintings began to multiply. The oil paint pried opened my tightly shut eyes, and this awakening supplied the energy, the push I needed in the right direction. I regained a sense of self as I continued to paint nonsensical yet grounded creations. Over time, the once angry and harsh brush strokes gradually became delicate dabs of paint as stormy and unclear turned into bright and unrestrained.
As time passed, I evolved with my creations: I began to move on, from the stagnant, murky fog towards the lighthouse up ahead. Putting one foot in front of the other, I established a steady rhythm, one that beat stronger than the last. My lifestyle changed, I began exercising, and my back pains diminished as my health began to recover. I shed the burnt cast of nothingness, and emerged anew.
As I continue to add to the growing series of paintings, the explicit proof of possibilities gives me strength to continue. I realize now, how much I have learned from this impromptu visual project. This far along this finicky road of what we call life, I wonder how I managed to have thought so wrongly: for the truth
Music has long since been an integral part of my life. Of course, while it can be a cherished companion, it can also be a hated foe in times of frustration. But it has always been there for me: the feeling of the cello’s strings vibrating as I draw out rich notes is comforting, as if to say, “It’s alright. We’ve got you.”
“I heard you the first time, you know.” That was rude, then, if she had heard and still not replied. Slightly ruffled, I asked what she was doing. “Do you not recognize …show more content…
“I’m afraid I don’t. Have we met?” I said, as something sick coiled in the bottom of my stomach: I was lying. The girl remained silent, and her eyes poured something that I can only describe to you as molten sunlight, the velvety blue of the oceanic deep. I watched in shame as the fading tears formed a pool, showing a glimpse of What Could Have Been.
My diagnosis of scoliosis plunged me into hellish orbit. The despair grew, along with a budding hatred of mirrors--a daily reminder of the distorted thing I had become. As the agony increased, the cello, that had once been an essential part of me, even a source of comfort, no longer symbolized what it had used to. The constant biting pain in my back and other ailments like plagued me day and night: I couldn’t sit or even read for a long period of time.
Eventually, my desperate attempts at rediscovering myself dwindled: Sleep was the only reprieve I had from physical and mental exhaustion. Believing I was nothing and could do nothing, I had forgotten who I was, what I had …show more content…
My first painting came as a shock: for the first time, I saw a visual representation of myself. It was grotesque, to see what I had degraded into. One work became two, and as the days passed, the paintings began to multiply. The oil paint pried opened my tightly shut eyes, and this awakening supplied the energy, the push I needed in the right direction. I regained a sense of self as I continued to paint nonsensical yet grounded creations. Over time, the once angry and harsh brush strokes gradually became delicate dabs of paint as stormy and unclear turned into bright and unrestrained.
As time passed, I evolved with my creations: I began to move on, from the stagnant, murky fog towards the lighthouse up ahead. Putting one foot in front of the other, I established a steady rhythm, one that beat stronger than the last. My lifestyle changed, I began exercising, and my back pains diminished as my health began to recover. I shed the burnt cast of nothingness, and emerged anew.
As I continue to add to the growing series of paintings, the explicit proof of possibilities gives me strength to continue. I realize now, how much I have learned from this impromptu visual project. This far along this finicky road of what we call life, I wonder how I managed to have thought so wrongly: for the truth