rain » vkook

five

it pains me to do it, but i sell the painting of sky. because it hurt even more to look at it.

the customer asked me why i had named it "A True Story From One Who Tends To Lie" and i said because that's exactly what it was.

the sun pounds on relentlessly for another week and i can feel myself drying up. the paint dries as soon as my brush touches canvas and i can feel my brain drying up too. had it always been this small?

when i was younger, i used to draw more than paint. i always drew myself with a big head, or no head at all. because my brain felt too big. too big, but not because i was smart. because it didn't work the same way as the other kids'. because i got distracted by the color green and little flecks of quartz in the asphalt. because i thought in pictures and couldn't write with words. because i was small and i didn't talk.

and now i suddenly feel like drawing again.

my head is just an outline.

i keep drawing, burning through pages and pages because drawing makes me feel light-headed, like maybe my brain is the right size.

my head is small. no, it is normal-sized. it just looks small on my own body.

why don't mirrors reflect this? why don't they show me my true self?

is this my true self?

i stare at the page, at the heavy, dark lines. at my normal-sized head. it is not a helium balloon. it is not the sun. it isn't me.

not me.

i suddenly want my paints again. i want my head to be big.

i feel like i am spinning, turning, turning, inside a kaleidoscope of all the versions of myself i had once dreamed up. i can't see in color anymore, like i'm an old tv you need to hit really hard to get to work. i try. i try to hit myself as hard as i can.

my hand doesn't move. because i am not a tv, i am me and so are all these imaginings, these caricatures. all of them have one exaggerated trait that i once wished myself to possess: surety, confidence, humor, attractiveness, different eyes, shorter fingers, a smaller head.

i can feel them fighting inside me, crawling down my throat and trying to make a home.

why does this have to be happening again?

i need it to rain. i need to be alone and i need to feel the rain against my skin and i need to see sky. i need to remember who i am and i need the paints to come back to life. i depend on them.

they allow inside to become outside. they allow me to breathe.

when the sun sets, i sit out on my balcony and watch it take its graceful leave from the sky. it soothes me.

i play classical music softly and lay on my back, staring up at the sky and watching the colors swirl like there once was rules and now there's no rules at all. i can feel all my selves swirling, too, until the sky goes quiet and they all coalesce into me and i take a deep breath.

i'm not tired.

so i go out and i wander the streets. the night air is warm against my body, the slight gentle breeze hugging my figure. the hem of my large t-shirt stirs apathetically. i can hear cars from busier streets a few minutes away, and the stars are tiny, muted pinpricks far, far above. the mounting blackness is interrupted by frozen bursts of orange from the streetlights, and a few people hurry through their pools of light, bringing snatches of conversations with them.

people are so much better in the dark.

my feet bring me to an open-all-night supermarket, and i glance through the windows. i feel a jolt in my stomach as i see sky, with that man.