This painting ran a course of about two years to complete. When I started it there was no end goal, it’s something that manifested over the years. So there are layers under what’s on the surface. Layers like past lives, memories, that punctuate the surface like bad scars. There’s even a backside to it, like one’s insides. To cover everything that went through my mind while working on this would be to write a novella of those two years of my life, perhaps like a teenage diary or blogger’s wet blanket.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to rant on like that, but now I realize I didn’t really want to revisit those thoughts. I didn’t want to have to explain what an empty person I was and how much hurt I ultimately did to myself. He certainly wasn’t the one ever trying to get me back, I kept inserting myself, I kept living a lie. To think of all the self-doubting I did, all the things I convinced myself of. I didn’t need anyone, I’m my own worst enemy.