I get more paint on my hands than the canvas and look upon myself with reckless appreciation. ‘I can’t make art,’ I tell the walls, but the inside voice tells me otherwise. What if, it says, what if you were the art? Imagine the entirety of space, the unlikelihood of earth, billions of compositions in fleshy permutation, vying and dying, striving and thriving, conniving against infinitesimal odds to exist in improbable events. Existence, then, must be art. I put down my paints and look at myself again through this new lens. Beauty lies in the I of the beholder.
We take each other’s stories and retell them as our own. ‘Did you know,’ she will say, and I’ll smile while listening to her iterate. For giggles I unwrap her anecdotes and place myself inside, she takes them back as gifts and brags to everyone. I make copious notes which she files smiling. ‘I’m compiling our lives,’ she tells me. I place this info on index, later she will read it back as hard reflex in passionate rote. Making no amendments, I’ll say I love what she wrote. She will tell me, ‘Honey, I couldn’t have done it alone.’