Is it life imitating art, or the reverse? Neither are turning out the way I expect.
Feeling like I had no burrow to retreat to, no place in our house that was mine, I bought a partition. Built myself a wall around my desk to draw in peace.
Emotionally I’ve been doing the same. Telling myself I’m embracing moments of joy, but most of those moments are on my own.
There’s a metaphor here somewhere. That the mess and pain are still on the other side, that those moments of peace and joy are so bright because of the contrast, because of the darkness around them.
I stated drawing this as defiant, but it just feels isolated instead. Art imitating life.