The Painting Comes To Me As If In A Dream

Image

I have a section of wall space in my bedroom in my current apartment about the span of my arms bordered by two doors on either side. Above each door are flower photos from a dollar store calendar with inspiring words like “visualize” and “clarity.” Hanging between the doors is a string of Tibetan prayer flags. Beneath the flags are geometrically organized photographs of friends and family. Almost all of them are friends from my high school years, now scattered across California. I have a Chinese good luck knot in red, Minnie Mouse ears from Disney Land, a miniature stained glass from West Minister Abbey, two rosaries, a set of prayer beads, and a bag from the Vincent van Gogh museum hanging around the photos. Near the base of the wall, I have the card my girlfriend made me when she asked me to be her girlfriend.

The only piece of furniture next to this wall is the nightstand my dad built for me from a box 5 or so years ago. On its small surface is the Virgin, a bird statue, a Zen garden, a fountain and two candles now burning. One candle is a guardian angel and the other the Virgin. They are both burning as I type. I’ve burned Mary’s candle more; it glows closer to the base than the angel.

This is my part of the room. MY PART. I know the rest of the room is mine as well with random stuff everywhere and on the walls, but this section is almost like a dream board. It sums up who I am and who I strive to be. I didn’t realize this until I started describing it, and honestly I was just stream of consciousness writing this. My body feels so light and my head foggy. I have a tendency to dissociate. This wall is my peaceful place. I think I made it purposely separate from the rest of my things, isolated from other parts because it’s different than the rest. The rest of my life is busy, anxious and quick. That wall, when I look at it is slow and appreciative. Everything has a story. Everything is part of some journey somewhere. Each item connected to the one besides it, but holds an entirely different significance and value. Maybe this is what I want. Not one great thing, but a lot of little things incredible in its sincere moment; the memory more precious in its pieces than one huge event that fades so fast from view. The little things get me by one day to the next. Today I pet a dog while sampling food at work. His fur was like a sheep’s fur and he sat at my feet, his head leaning back against my hip. I touched his fur for only a minute but it was so refreshing and so happy. 

Side Note: The title of this entry is the Vincent van Gogh quote on the bag from his museum. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: