So that's it? That's why I'm lost without a book or a film character I can latch onto? I guess it's fair. At least I have something, a life preserver, to keep me from drowning in all this truth.
A life saver, like the one my brother nearly choked on as a toddler. Or at least that's the artful version that is filed in my memories. Mom said he choked on a life saver, a green one, I remember the cylindrical package, and even the fresh taste of the one I'd just eaten, and he couldn't breathe and the firemen's shoes got our carpet dirty but it didn't matter because they needed to save him fast. A life saver almost, well, how's that for irony.
I need a mountain of art, an ocean, a galaxy filled with art to distract me from the pain of seeing all the truth, or is it lies, that surround me every moment I'm awake. Lies engulf me the moment that sleep leaves my eyes. Burning, searing pain. Joan of Arc on the stake.
Give me that art then. Just load me up with it, squeeze it over my eyes, stop this burning, for chrissake.
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