There are paintings I wouldn’t mind watching over and over again. Not necessarily by hanging in my room, but rather more like visiting a museum. There are some I’ve repeatedly visited, some I call favorites and some where I felt cheated, but paintings I will always like.
You couldn’t teach me to paint, but you taught me to read. I don’t pick my reads based on the cover anymore. I heard you when you said we should experience the narrative firsthand and not the way I used to, digesting books merely as pretty successions of sentences and thoughts. I might try to follow you and get into writing, but I still feel like I’ve a lot to learn.
And now that I think of you, I’ve become a wanderer of sorts. I like going places where I don’t feel overwhelmed, where I can breathe easily, where I can lie down and feel safe, and if I start speaking out loud, I won’t feel embarrassed or judged. But I don’t wander as often as I’d like to- There are places I like going to, but I usually do so alone. And find a decent spot and read.
I try to read a lot, but I don’t always feel like it. I started carrying that book you wrote with me everywhere I went to for a couple of months, to try and restart reading it someday. I never finished it.
But the thing is, I don’t know if I really want to finish that book. Thing is, I’m too tired to keep hiking mountains by myself. And yes, the view from the top? It might be worth it, but I don’t know.
I don’t know if sightseeing is still my thing.
It was for a long while, but you knew me, always growing tired of routine. Except for art. Paintings? Like I said, I don’t mind watching them over and over again. Thing is, I could never paint, and you never taught me to. So, I got into collecting. I’ve got quite a few pieces by now, lovely ones, and I love staring at them.
But that self-portrait of yours? There’s no room for it here anymore.