The only thing holding them from eating me is the ability to look at them in the face, talking and sharing like no one is looking, like the audience is dead. It’s just you and what is true about you. And yet, I allow you to see me, with that I don’t feel lonely, with this strange mind in this weird life. Feeling then feels like living, when the person witnessing my emergence acknowledges my existence, validates my uncertainty and gently caresses my vulnerability and fills my emptiness with an emptiness of their own. My exhausted soul goes through this from time to time. Suddenly I feel seen, exposed, anxious, panicking, urged to hide, to die, to vanish; then a hug, a kiss, a look by an honest eye, a speaking touch of a hand, changes the color of the water, turning it into juice, and the juice to a fruit, a delicious sweet one, a watermelon, I eat it and feel hungry. But you are very imperfect, just like me. None of us is able be God, however hard we exhaust ourselves in trying. I fail at proving you that I am him, or her, I am God, I am what could save you, believe me and believe in me, don’t look away, it’s only me, I need it, to be seen and praised, because I am imperfect, and scared, I am not God, and I need you to hide my flaws. I need you to be my God, to accept me for whoever I am, and never change that, don’t feel but your love for me, this way I will only be perfect and won’t suffer, save me or let me save you. But there is no savior, the pain is the constant, the suffering is the journey, loneliness is the lesson and love is the treasure. But the treasure doesn’t lie at the end point of the road, it is scattered and buried on the sides, you find a piece every couple of miles, you find it when you quit, thinking you can’t proceed, you dig and collect it, and feel hopeful again, you accept it and consume it, it’s finished and you move on looking for more, your neediness knocks out your strength, you lose hope again and you drop to find another piece. At the end you end up with no whole treasure, but you only continued because you had parts of it throughout the path, you remember it all. You recall every moment of hope and one of sorrow, every beginning and every end, and every in-between, and every person was once a company. You recall the feelings and you feel something new having gone through them all. They feel old, being replaced with new ones, and yet you think this present feeling is permeant, that it is everything, it will not get old like the ones from before, no, this time is different, it is the answer you want to believe, you oblivious and naive, helpless and weak, needy and longing, you poor creature, full of fear, full of life, full of death, choked by your paradox, trying too hard, thinking too fast, believing too deep, trying to escape. But there is no escape, you’ll come back to where you have begun, realizing all your running was on a spherical globe, you are still, and the ball under your feet is turning, you touch all its surface, and yet you think there is somewhere else to run to. Drop that rock Sisyphus, climb the mountain on your own, the rock will always make you fall near the peak but without it maybe you don’t, maybe you reach the top for once, and realize that there is nothing to achieve. Sculpt the rock and create a statue, make it look like you, show it to yourself and see no shame, put it in there and let other climbers, others breathless runners know you were there, and give them solace in your failure. I give you solace in my failure. This is me and this is my painting.