"I tried to drown my sorrows but those bastards learned how to swim."-Frida
I can't breathe. There's so much weight on finding myself and ultimately being content that I just, can't breathe. So instead I've become a master in my own art of covering up my sorrows. I insist on being fine, being okay, being alright, being good, being happy, being content. I insist and repeat that I regurgitate those strokes of emotions. I make sure that with each person, I say the right things at the right time. To him I reply, "I'm good. I'm good." To her, I answer, "I'm okay, I'm alright." And when they ask, "Just okay?", or, "Just alright?" I panic. Maybe they've caught on to the makings of my painting, as if somehow my answer isn't enough to appease that righteous individual inside them that believes they aren't selfish. So I insist that, "No, really, I'm good," to finally have them satisfied with my response. But I am not fine. I am not okay. I am not alright. I am not good. I am not happy. I am not content. Though if I said this, I know I would have to explain why. How do I explain something I don't even know? And what could they possibly do that could alleviate this choking on air? Nothing. So I will continue to be fine, be okay, be alright, be good, be happy, be content. As to not cause any unnecessary uncomfort. Conversations filled with flowers and laughing faces will overflow in order to compensate for the feelings lurking on the picture you so clearly see me painting. Because I know that you too are going through the same thing.
