an artist's confessional

i don't even know what to say.
i don't even LIKE you-- there's no question in my mind that i hate you.
But there's nothing i can do about it--
i have to see you everyday, live every moment of my life with you scowling down at me--
sometimes peering up at me--
either way you can never manage to leave me alone for more than a fraction of a moment.
i find myself warring with you, shoving you away,
painting over your appalling grotesque features of pain and agony;
smothering pigments shape your face,
thick, liquid-life mixing and blending and layering
with breath of its own
creating a new being.
i find myself seeping into the pores of the canvas,
a part of me moving through the flowing tones and shades;
the brush shuttering with electricity and individual personality within my grasp.

time paints a portrait.
an image.
a living representation of interpretation that portrays this haunting--
the receiver of my hatred, the source of my apathy--

my self portrait, leaning deviously yet innocently on the easel--
still, but moving.
alive, but so very dead.