I spent the last two days trapped in the back bedroom — which could have been fun, if I hadn’t been doing a solo gig. Last week I scraped and primed the Pepto Bismal pink walls and smoke stained ceiling. This weekend was devoted to color. I used to dread ceilings. Straining your neck. Struggling to hold a paint-soaked roller above your head for what always seemed like hours in the hope of covering the cracks with an even coat of latex. And “even” never happened. I’m not sure if it’s the paint that’s changed, or my stroke, but this room’s lid was the easiest part of the job. The rest was a long and tedious journey of heathstone grey and buttermilk white.
Leaving me alone in a room for too long is a dangerous thing. Too much time to myself, and I analyze, re-analyze, and over analyze everything going on in my life. This “me time” was devoted to picking apart what may or may not be my new relationship.
What is it that makes us who we are?
