In the room next to me

There is a fire burning and on a burning log I just put an old sculpture I made in art-school. I watched it burn for 5 minutes and I thought that it felt really good letting it go. It was a flower/phallic/chair  shaped sculpture I made about 6 years ago. I remembered taking photos of it to send to a design-school on the floor of the apartment that I shared with my ex-girlfriend. I remember how I put coat after coat of polish on it until I realised that I like it more with just oil.

It felt great letting go of that mediocre piece of wood/memory. Maybe I’ll never be an artist. Maybe I’ll never get into the flow I’m dreaming of. I don’t know. I just don’t know. But it’s ok. I still do stuff when I feel good about myself. I just wish It was a little more often.

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