A voice echoes. It calls from the caverns of my brain. I used to let it own me; it was much louder then. I never used to finish anything. But I've forced the voice to recess, by knowing why I work.
- - -
It always arrives as butterfly wings which encourage and support. It says: "Look at my project flourishing. How beautiful and purposeful it is!"
I express gratitude by keeping my head down and doing the work.
In a moment of weakness later on, I lift my head. I see now -- what I thought were butterflies -- are moths. Flitting around my precious creation. I protect it as best I can, as their wings begin to singe. They sizzle and pop, before dissolving to ash and dusting the floor. The beauty of the original encouragement begins to feel like a lie.
What am I doing?
I put my head down and pretend it never happened. I do the work.
The sound of sizzling moths is usurped by an incessant scratch scratch scratch on the walls around my art. The voice has become strong enough for me to understand it, and the paint peels to the sounds of it... It's saying "what's the point?... why do it at all?... no one will get it. No one will get you."
I choose to not listen. Not because I think the voice is right or wrong.
But because the one person who will understand is worth all those that won't.
I do the work for her.
