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Scout on Choices/ Art

 

I used to see art in loneliness. How intelligent must a person be to have the power to stand on their own? I'm not sure if I was wrong or if I have a skewed perspective now that I am lonely. I’ve realized that it’s less of a choice and more of a punishment. My soul is dying to leap out, to escape whatever trap I’ve set. I keep it in, with everything else, and I'm small again. I’m crying on bathroom floors in grade school, my tears flooding the ground, and I blame it on the sinks. Pouring, and pouring, and pouring, but I still deny that something is wrong. How can it be when I still work, study, and eat? How can it be when no one can tell? And when I’m crouched down, I become a silhouette, and it’s like nothing ever existed at all. If so, why does anything matter? Everything is black and white, and I flash between both because I can't make up my mind about anything.

 I can’t decide if I hate my family for not being what I needed or if I love them for trying. I can’t tell if I want to run away or plant roots. How can I when there is no value in either choice? The only choice I worry about is whether I should set my soul free. I'm sick of blaming its escapism on my surroundings. It just wants to leave, but I can't tell if I should listen to it. Every day I think about driving off a bridge. That choice is definitely black and white, but it's much more significant. I’ve put it off for now and try to distract myself with things of no significance. My hair, people, school, lust, or anything else I can pretend to care about. I am blind, deaf, and mute in my soul. There is nothing left but anger and sadness and tears. I love who I was and hate who I am. I can’t escape my suffering or pretend like it wasn’t always there. I can't care about anyone else when I'm worried about black and white. If they ask, I’m fine. I’m making art.


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