Here it is all finished and ready to hang in my office. It's titled: I Just Can't Fake It Any More.
There's a poem about Richard Corey, a man who had a perfect life and one day went home and put a bullet through his head. I don't think it was depression that caused him to be suicidal. I think it was the constant strain of faking it, of holding in emotions, of biting back feelings and not saying what ought to be said.
2 comments:
Hmmmm...
I think the Rx should be something tropical, with a cabana boy and pink drinks...
I love the insight of the piece.
Are you heavy hinting at work?
:o)
There are days when I cannot push blindness, Sjogren's, lupus, and all the pain from the diseases out of my life as well as the way it completely turned my life upside down when I can certainly relate to the feelings you expressed for that art. I become vulnerable, which I hate with a vengeance because somehow I allowed these diseases to get the better of me. It is only when I take command of my feelings back that I begin to feel better and feel as if I can handle whatever this world can dish out and I can give it back equally as harsh in return by refuses to submit to the pity of the situation I find myself in at this point in time.
You have an excellent gift to the insight of the human condition. Use it to your advantage whenever possible.
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