Suffer

They say she suffers for her art, but her art is to suffer. On those nights she paints in deep indigo and royal purple, the color of the monarchy. Her canvas of life spread before her in acres of illusion, miles of delusion, and discrimination of hallucination. You may think her art is sad like the fog, or mysterious like the fog, or misty like the fog. Or perhaps it is just fog on a Sunday afternoon with nothing better to do.

Clarity is just around the corner, but she doesn't brush with that. In this moment, she says she likes it blurry. An obscuring haze that films the mirror just enough to soften the image of self. It is the tone of the moody blues. The harmony of life when the melody and words have been long forgotten, and only the automatic heartbeat remains.

She says she doesn't believe it can get worse, but then she can imagine it worse, and therefore she could image it worse. She could image it better also, if there was a better, but it can't get better than already the most perfect of creation. Pain is for the noticing, and to suffer pays it due homage. She forgets suffer means permit. She forgets suffer means allow. She forgets suffer means to experience. She just remembers that suffer can dress in blue velvet and cry itself to sleep, and so she does that.