Underneath the Paint is a section where short stories are written by me based on what is seen or felt in the painting.
I am walking. Why is that person with a red hat staring at me. I've had enough today. This month. This year. Anxiety ridden mind. I hope I don't fall. Or I hope that I do. Falling into this huge puddle would make me one with whatever I am feeling inside. I would at least have a more realistic reason to grip onto so I can ridicule myself. I stand here by the traffic light in this pile of people and feel as if not only my mascara but also my hair colour and my freckles and my skin is washing away with rain, peeling down, it cannot stick onto my frame. I think too much. I must get home as soon as possible or I'll jump under a car. But how could I carry the shame if the car would stop and I would stay alive. I am unlocking the front door, climbing up the stairs. Narrow, suffocating, dark, dusty, empathetic. The lock once again goes click and I am safe. This place is worse than the restaurant that I ate my lunch in today or my splendid little office area; it's worse than my parents' home or my sisters flat in the west of the city. But it's better because it reeks like me, it sounds like me, it is blind and it is deaf. It won't judge me, it won't make me feel anxious, it won't make me feel like I need to be someone else. I am probably imagining it all, dissociating, flying away into my own conclusions, my made-up troubles. But as I am laying on my blue carpet,which I haven't vacuumed in years, I feel as if I am in a safe place, far away from the apocalypse that is happening everywhere but in this little apartment. The ashes, the cigarette butts, the bottles of milk and of vodka, the dirty laundry and plates, the half-read books are what actually make me feel clean and real. The version of me that is true. And no one is judging, or no one is judging me as I imagine them do.