Me, My Cigarette, and The World

15- Graham's mind is so full it might explode.

(Graham's POV)

Reading reviews of your own art is a surreal experience. The reviewers don't know anything they're talking about but it doesn't make it any less crazy to see. I do always find it funny that they all still think any of it means something. I'm no tortured artist. I'm a machine that makes emotionless art for mindless consumers. I don't expect them to understand it. I never have.

I remember when art was stripped down to it's purest form to me. I was given an art kit for my birthday from my eldest brother. We always got along the most. He taught me how to draw different animals and simple shading techniques. By the time I had finished drawing our family pet, Lucy, my eight year old brain had decided I was going to be an artist.

I don't hate my job. I'm just tired of lying when I say I love it. The longer Damon is around the more my forgotten dreams sneak up on me. He keeps pushing me to pick up my guitar more and it's all getting to my head. I need to remember my roots and that I have to stick to what I'm good at. Music just isn't one of my expertises and that's okay with me for now, but the more pressure that gets placed on me, the more I want to throw away my paintbrushes and pick up my telecaster.

"How's it coming along?" Damon asks with a sing song voice as he waltzes through my room with my lunch. He's been making sure I eat and take showers. This is one of my 'best' commissions yet. It's selling for a pretty penny and I have plenty to worry over with this one. Some big museum director is buying it or something and just the thought of someone like him ever critiquing my work makes me feel slightly sick.

"I don't like it." I force myself to pry my eyes away from the canvas to look at my sort-of lover. I don't know what other title to give to him. We aren't dating yet, but we're somewhere on the way. I know we're close.

"Hmm, I think it looks good. Maybe add some black. Y'know, swirl it around in there or some shit." He sounds like a high school student as he passes me my plate. I don't mind peanut butter sandwiches all too much, but it's all I've been eating for the past four days because Damon won't make anything else and I'm scared I'll offend him if I say anything. I guess it's better than just barely eating until I finish a commission. That wasn't the greatest for my health and I know it.

A staring contest between me, Damon and the painting commences when I take the first bite of my food. I'm staring at the canvas, it's staring back. Damon is staring at me. My room is just a magnifying glass and Damon and I as well as the canvas are the bugs. I pretend not to feel put off by my thoughts. I finish my lunch soon enough and then it's back to work. Damon sits on my bed and reads poetry and I just about feel like we're the most pretentious almost couple alive.

"I still think you should paint the view off your balcony." He sighs without taking his eyes off the pages in front of him. I look out the window and it's still day. A gloomy lighting seeps through all the windows and it makes everything feel dead. I feel dead a lot but these past few weeks have been a bit different I guess.

"I don't even think I can paint those sorts of things anymore." I say truthfully. I used to paint these lovely abstract yet still coherent pieces but no one wanted them. I had to adapt and it took all my individuality with it. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know what I paint anymore.

"Of course you can!" He smiles that smile he does when he's encouraging me to do something. "Stuff like that is probably simple for a hotshot artist like you." I'm not an artist. I'm definitely not a hotshot. Laughing it off seems like the best option because I'm worried if I say anything it might turn into a serious conversation about my low self esteem. Damon has been trying to help me think more of myself. I let him think he's helping but I'm still just as bad about my self image as I was before.