monday

right now, sitting on this sofa where the sun hits only my left leg, i can't help but wonder if i can ever trust myself in anything i say, feel or think.

she seems so far away - this childishly severe-looking person - but my stomach hurts and i somehow feel that connects us. our stomach hurts, so we're one. i can trust that it hurts and somehow in pain and uncomfortability lies an odd synergy between my many selves. 

i always wonder if people can see it, that rupture of mine, the estrangement. i'm looking at the ugliest paiting right now: it's blue and white and gold and slightly black. could i use this as a metaphor to talk about myself? is that something i - reflective, pretentious, poetic - would do? is that something i - sincere, simple, tired - would hate?

if i (first one) were to talk about this painting as myself i would say the blue fallen at the bottom of the canvas creates this strange illusion that makes it feel like the sea, some parts a deeper shade that remind me of drowning, and that in turn reminds me of the time i almost drowned in a pool when i was seven years old and i kept grabbing my hair and pulling it above the water in the hope that i would be recognized by my mother. why did i think of my hair? why was not moving my hand enough? could she have even distinguised anything of mine in that wet chaotic movement, distinguished my hair? i cut it off when i was seventeen and i have felt strange ever since. perhaps my younger self knew something i don't. 

i would then romanticize the gold, this metallic shade that changes with light and movement - aren't we all like that? isn't that deep, using the reflection of color as a general metaphor for human mutability? and then the white: dirty, dripping, greyish. i have felt dirty too, you know? you know nothing about me, i have felt dirty and dripping and gray and this color that sits in the back of the painting innocent and unnoticed describes me at a spiritually fundamental level that you could never understand. 

and the black. you could barely notice it at first glance. it's a messy stroke that stains it all. it's a dry chunk of paint, grainy and unconsistent. i'm not sure if those would be the ugliest or the most beautifully hidden parts of me, something obscure but transformative. black was my favorite color for a long time, perhaps because i'm bad at deciding and i like to have it all. but my favorite color is now green, i think, and the black feels more insubstantial, less meaningful. but it's still the very first thing i see when i look at this painting, the smallest ugliest thing. what does that say about me?

if i (second one) where to look at this paiting and tell you what i think i would just say it's ugly as fuck. it's shabby and dumb and it looks like shit on the gray-blue wall that i also find ugly. i'd rather there be a window, or another painting, like those realistic ones with people in strange and dramatic poses with a thousand details. those are enteratining to look at because they never end, there's always something to find. perhaps a painting of where's waldo. that'd be fun.

is it so bad i like things to be fun? is it bad that i don't know myself at all but deep down the only thing i know for sure is that i'd like to laugh? is it bad i want poetry and depth at the same time and with the same passion that i want mindless pleasure? 

now the sun has moved and both my legs are warm. 

it's monday.