“Creative Destruction” Fiction. Based on a True Disappointment.

“The world always seems brighter when you’ve just made something that wasn’t there before.” – Neil Gaiman

“Creative Destruction”

Fiction. Based on a True Disappointment.

by Ruby

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

You know those carved candles that have twists and turns showing off the colors bursting from within? I want to be one of those. Carving out as much of my surface area as possible to find what’s hidden inside. I’d carve out my old identity, old life, old memories, and dig and dig and dig and dig. Until finally chinking my shovel on the gem inside. I’d dig as far into my own veins as it took until the orange, green, and purple streaks all leaked out. I know they are in there. Waiting, dormant. Sleeping until I find and expose them.

I would carve out those old and new expectations. Those things I used to like doing. Places I liked going. Events I liked attending. I’d carve them all out and loop them around each other until all that’s left are gaping holes between beautifully laced loops of who I was.

I only keep going from the hope something beautiful lays in wait. I would place that vibrant candle on a mantel and never light her. I would let her finally rest displaying her truth in those loops. I used to try to release whatever was inside, but my weapon of choice was destruction.

Now with creation on my side, I can only hope the carving is cathartic. Maybe with the goal of exposing myself with the intention of finding the goodness, maybe that will be the difference between discovery and destruction.

~

Disappointment is something you know too well. Same with regret. The list you have for each could wallpaper the entirety of your home twice over. That’s a lot. A lot, a lot. You are starting to wonder if it’s worth maintaining the list anymore. If it’s worth telling your feelings anymore. Instead you wonder if you should button up and solider on, like you always have, like you always do.

But it hurts. It hurts so much. Hot tears threatening to spill at every turn, so much. You are tired. More tired than you have been in a very long time. Maybe as tired as when the doctor said your iron levels are low. Maybe as tired as when your baby grew inside you, taking, taking, taking and growing, growing, growing.

How you miss that time, now. Going through your day, you miss being able to sit back and feel her there deep within you. Now you have to hope you will get a notification from daycare with a photo attached. Giving you a glimpse of her day. Distance growing, growing, growing between you and her. Each day her life grows in degrees of separation from you. The feeling splintering your heart with the passing moments. When you were pregnant, even through the never-ending vomit, nausea, and exhaustion, in the still moments you could close your eyes and see that little being becoming herself. You could feel her rolling around your heart and sticking her toes between your ribs.

When you were pregnant you could focus on your deadlines, projects, writing, and duties and never need to worry about neglecting her, because she was there. With you. Every step of the way. Back then you did not realize the absolute treasure of that fact. Now, you would give anything for an extra hour, day, moment. It hurts. A lot. So much.

~

Sometimes your art hurts too much to make. So you don’t. You burn it instead.

Sometimes you cut it off the canvas, still dripping in paint, fold it up and place it in a box. Permanently disfigured from wet paint mutating all over itself. The act of destruction creating something new entirely.

Once you have removed that art from your skin, you see the colors underneath. Vibrant purple, teal and yellow shining below the canvas you tucked away. Shining, glittering colors dancing though your veins and around your bones. This destruction leaves a scar, but the scar is all together creating new story lines along your symmetries. It no longer hurts as much.

You put the painting, now new entirely, asleep in the box at the top of your closet. On the lid is a timer, for another time and another place. That is the time and place you will open back up and see if the art is still a story needing to be told. If not, you will be older and wiser to simply see.

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