In art, I seek a beauty denied me by reality.
My current creative sterility prompts the question…
Having stopped making art I wish to see, why expect strangers to produce it?
Should we anticipate satisfaction from those who do not share our needs?
In any case, art leaves untouched longings
for human presence…
so far unfound.
Can I even picture her
while lying here
lovelorn and useless,
unable to heal
my own wounds?
An existence less about freedom
than rendering confinement bearable
when trapped by invisible bonds of sickness
which frustrate escape
through worsening symptoms
until prostration results.
Constant pain and fatigue grow familiar
yet loneliness remains harsh.
Being submerged under nature’s injustice
physically and aesthetically challenged
Life becomes a grey trudge of disappointment
marred by desire.
The city turns into a more exhausting place
for feeling isolated.
Staying in saves energy
Irrational hopes occasionally propel me toward social situations
but efforts go predictably unrewarded.
I remember my father’s voice, saying,
“What woman in her right mind, would want to go out with you?”
Unfortunately, he had a point.
My relationship prospects seem dismal
across this health divide.
Each time I come home alone, marks another failure.
And I always come home alone.
Caged by illness
without a crime
is my fate.