Preview

It’s unstable now,
the painting that you are.

Layers of paint
painted onto other layers of paint
in an attempt to follow
the latest fashion.

But now it is precarious:
add a single drop to it and
it will collapse.

It is the preview tonight.

There are people drinking fizzy white wine
and talking about jazz.

You watch your painting.

A clump of paint comes loose,
burdened under its own weight,
and falls onto the recently
cleaned carpet.

Shit.
You feel a heaviness in your chest.
You remember all the bills you have to pay.
Promises made and broken.
Unfulfilled obligations.
Environmental destruction.
The desperation of living.

But then you notice something.
The empty space left behind
isn’t empty at all.

And you remember a story from your childhood
about a painting discovered in a garage,
that had an old master under the surface.

You take your painting to the back room.
Remove layer upon layer with cotton buds
and white spirit.

There was no old master underneath, though.
Of course there wasn’t.

But in the process you were transformed.
You realised that perhaps you don’t need to add anything to yourself.
Perhaps you are already perfect.