Creatives, Do we torture ourselves?
Or does the world pour sssss-sizzling coals over open seepin' sores, dragging fiery flickers across our chests, nature's tribal marks drafting territories? The dread-ry, life within art. Brad, Holden, Sabrina, Wade, Rory, cursed. Amaka, Chima, Nedu, Shade, Lema, darkness enclosed within smiles and rolling eyes. "Too happy," scrawled, punctuated, across novelty pieces. Petals opened, not shattered enough. Broken, synonymous to experienced. Four years later, four accidents -- two totals, one fender bender, one pedestrian hit -- later, breaking, falling mind walls and living puberty at 23. I revel in the brokenness of my chosen art, unraveling onion scale leaf. Are new pieces good? Don't ask me. First John yes-es. I also must progress, he says. Shall I torture myself further? Isn't my alcoholism, cynical outlook and restless spirit enough? Last night, I stayed three hours awoke past my close-eyed time. The pain shooting from my chest like shafters of dea