I am not an artist.
I cannot paint.
I cannot write.
I wander along the façade of fiction, between imagination and reality.
I can hide my pathetic true self behind the supposed fictitious pictures.
I try to draw a sunset, dawn, an afternoon sun reflecting off rain clouds, people walking, traffic light changing, cars slowing and turning, meals prepared, families talking, and lovers gazing.
And, me in somewhere.
Though I have no understanding of the language, no fancy skill, and no business creating anything, I must draw fake pictures and put my depictions out there to show myself that I exist.
As long as I am in the process of sculpting something, I can breathe. When I stop purging, that’s when I choke.
I have days – many days – that I don’t think I could make it.
I draw because I must keep living.