As I stared at myself in the mirror, I thought about what it would be like to paint my own portrait…what sort of self would I end up painting? Would I be able to find even a shred of affection for myself? Would I be able to discover even one thing shining within me? ~Haruki Murakami
If I was gifted in the manipulation of dense oils, bright, fast drying acrylics, or flowy waters AND had the courage to paint myself, I imagine the painting would be dark, brooding, surreal angst devoid of bright emotion obfuscating reality. It would be a painting at war with itself ebbing between twilight and midnight, swords flying from all directions piercing flesh, seeking purchase in brittle bones, victory ever elusive.
There is pent-up angst struggling to either reconcile with the world and slip into vaginal warmth or escape from the world to a lone desert strewn with rock souled monsters peering into my heart. Monsters seeking to expose the incomprehensible within. They drop me in a hole and trap me in their ineluctable gaze, a gaze scrubbing off the thick patina exposing a rust-eaten brightwork armor no longer suitable for self-protection nor protection from the self. I am trapped for there is no postern to escape my internal mental floggings.
The only option is to confront myself until I mummify in the dry heat my face permanently twisted, a self-made painting of desiccated human flesh and bleaching bone.