t/w suicide


My whole life I’ve lived by the sea. It's a lonely life, out on the cliffside. Lonely in a way
that chills me to my bones and makes my skin so pale it's almost transparent against the
gray-white ocean sky.
But even with this loneliness, I couldn’t leave for the world. They’re my cliffs, even
though they're sad, my cliffs with their ancient rocks and strangled trees and high grass. My
cabin that peeks out from that grass like a lost child playing hide-and-seek.
My cabin is full of paintings. Canvases fill every square inch of the walls, are stacked in
corners, piles and piles of paintings threatening to topple over. Painting is the only way to hold
out from that loneliness, or at least it was.
Lately I’m feeling the gray-white of loneliness creeping up on me,...