Pain and emptiness in an artist's soul.

How can I put into words what it is I am feeling? I ache. I hurt. It is a deep burning that starts in the middle of my chest and goes deeper. It's the kind of twisting pain that makes you want to puke. Makes you want to give up and call it all quits. The kind of pain that steals all your strength and leaves you feeling lifeless. I'm talking about a wound that draws no blood, if it did, it could heal on it's own. It's a wound that is caused by betrayal, rejection and a broken trust. I want to scream and cry but there are no tears, shock and disbelief have dried that well thoroughly. My soul is filled with a hollow loneliness as if my best friend told me I was worthless and left. It's like a lover dies and all the promises disappear, they read the will and you're not included but the new paper-boy gets a healthy chunk. Imagine working on a piece of art for two years under constant encouragement. The Queen posts images of the piece, promising it as the head of the new exhibit. Opening day comes and as you approach the commons you see that all the posters have changed and a child's drawing is in your place. As you enter the hall, no one speaks about the injustice and there is not a sign of your work. The saddest part is, thousands of people know and not one person has said one word about the wrong. Every day I travel those same halls and pass the same people and because I still care, I can say nothing because the exhibit must open. The Queen treats your work as if it means nothing and was a passing fancy. I don't even get the honor of being acknowledged for anything more than, “ya, he was here”. It is as if I were in mourning.

I wish I could cry.

But my well is cold and dry.

God Bless them and you.
Hisart


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