Attraction, desire, and sinfully beautiful, Mika Santana is a devil with the face of an angel. Despite her tragic past, she's never given up her ruthless pursuits for success and vengeance which leaves little to no room for matters of the heart. But...
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My wrist flicks in a half motion, sprinkling deep sea-blue paint on my unprimed canvas. It falls over the white spatter paint, adding dimension and a layer to the painting.
Honestly, I don't know what I'm doing.
I woke up this morning, lost and full of sorrow. Mika would've been thirty today. Maybe that's why. Gearing my emotions into a new painting is my only healthy way of coping with this. Besides, I have an exhibition in two weeks with only two paintings to showcase.
Luckily, it's an exhibit for multiple artists, but I need four paintings to present to the audience.
When I left New York, I didn't really have an initial plan — I had money, a broken heart, and a passport. Earlier in my journey, I fueled my anguish with drinking, drugs, and sleeping. I backpacked through most of Europe; Malta, Italy, Portugal, United Kingdom, but I couldn't remember a damn thing about them.
It took about a year to break the cycle.
I wasted a year disappointing Mika-- disappointing myself.
But after nearly dying from a heroin overdose, I got my fucking shit together. It was fucking gruesome to come to the realization that Mika is in the afterlife. There's nothing I could do but trek forward towards a new path, a new purpose, a new dream. I didn't give Mika up-- she's my ultimate dream, but that won't be possible until I'm gone.
After getting clean, I attended NAM meetings to ensure a successful journey toward sobriety. It would be a lie if I claimed it was easy-- it is fucking brutal. Even now, it's a continuous journey, and I have to assure myself every day why I'm doing what I'm doing-- for Mika, for her legacy to live on in this world.
Once I was a month sober, I booked a flight to Paris, France, with no thought of what I wanted to do. Since the school year had already started, I had to find another way to accompany my time until the spring semester. It was a lot of random part-time jobs to gain experience in the normal world.
Not because I needed the money.
But because I didn't trust myself to fall into the deep end, unless people were around. It's been an issue I've been working through in my weekly therapy session. It's tough because even though I have someone listening — there are still things I need to keep to myself.
As the years flew by, I learned how to cope with my emotions on my own— no drugs, no alcohol, no need to be surrounded by a crowd. Thoughts are scary, but I think they bring out a different side of me — one I need to keep my career alive.
Spattering grape tint purple on the canvas, the lines form an incoherent line. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. My thoughts are all scattered over the page like this painting. It's too much —all at once. Releasing a frustrated breath, I grab the canvas and toss it to the side with my ongoing collection of unfinished paintings.
