All That Is Left Behind

We all have this ideal of what normalcy is, and generally, all see ourselves as normal. I was this way once. It’s only halfway down a downward spiral that you start to realise what’s really going on. It’s only when the uncredible as occur that it sinks in how mundane it can be. It’s to the simplest people that the wildest stories occur, but you only learn this once you live it.

It was late when I came home.

After I walked the dog, ate, and changed clothes, I went to my tiny studio and looked at the unfinished painting.

I sat on my stool and spent half an hour mixing paints and trying to get back exactly the colours I had been using. Then I looked back to my original sketch, did a few tweaks, and went back to touching up on the water at the bottom left of the canvas. It took me nearly a full hour to get my creative juices flowing, and I had no more than half an hour of actual productive painting, until I had to but everything down, close the tubs, wash the pan and brushes. In the end, I took nearly as much time setting up and cleaning after, than I had time to actually paint, and I was wasting so much paint, by washing so often, but I was working two jobs, seven days a week, and I didn’t have anymore time to give to my passion.

I actually dropped painting altogether for months, until I whipped myself back into shape and started again, to burn out a month or two later, until I’d force myself to do it again, repeating in an endless circle.

If I didn’t discipline myself, I would have stopped completely, but every time this thought came, it terrified me, as I realised how few little happiness I allowed myself.

This city was ridiculously expensive, and my small apartment was still beyond my means. I had managed to find one with this tiny room that I rented out from time to time to help pay my bills, and would use it as a makeshift art studio in between roommates.

I would then move my painting supplies to my own small bedroom, but then it would smell like paint day and night.

Still, I had been lucky with this apartment, it was a former storage facility that had been transformed into a flat, and it was more space than I would have been able to afford if I had a good view, or cross breeze, or luminosity. But there was a nice little park nearby and the block was relatively safe, even late, and there were plenty of public transportation options.

But I still needed the two jobs to pay for the rent, and food, and all the essentials, leaving me with little spare money, and my painting hobby was becoming a little too expensive for my means. No matter how much good bargain paints I manage to snatch, or that I made my own canvas.

go to bars, I shopped my clothes in second-hand stores, and furniture on Craigslist in the donation section. I would scrooge every cent I could, yet it was barely enough to stay afloat, and I was left with mostly two options, leave the city for somewhere cheaper

got up, and my legs, swollen like sausages, were painful and clumsy. It was what happened when I sat on a tiny uncomfortable stool for nearly two hours after working on my feet for ten. It was terrible for my blood circulation. I should find something better than this stool, but I had to surf the internet for ages to find something free and decent that wasn’t too far for me to go and pick it up using public

felt

walked gingerly and I finished

feel like they could manage a shower,

at least I had a tub, which was impressive in this section of the city, without needing a six-figure salary to

enough for part of the swelling to go down, then walked the dog again, and went straight to bed.

on Monday I had done a fourteen-hour shift, but,

had been able to enjoy the afternoon sun, and I decided to indulge in a rare moment of luxury as I took my dog to the park and sat down on a blanket to scribble.

to draw two to ten pieces every day of people and things I observed. While doing this, I had improved tremendously, and it had been one of my

start my days, scratching paper for at least half an hour, I would

the rest of my life as it became my daily therapy session,

world is. A lot of it is an idolised version of reality. We want to save the world and make it a better place. We’ve been told all our youth

And then reality smacks you on the forehead pretty hard. Bills, responsibilities, and trying to make your social life survive

of a tough awakening, and it takes a little while to sink in, but it

an artist was supposed to be, but I went to art school regardless. I thought I could find some work as a graphic designer or something along that line

boring logos and uninspiring projects, the more I grew to dislike what had been my raison d’être for so long.

then images stopped appearing in my head.

was a bit better than retail, but not by much, and I grew more and