Sometimes it’s better to express yourself with art or music. I imagine this is what’s so attractive about the performers. In his work, you can always tell, ‘I inspired this. This is how he tells me. This is how he tells the world.’ I am taught to be modest, but there is no modesty in inspiration.
So I remain without a talent. I have to sing it, but I have no music. I have to show it. I have no art. I watch you go without. The world never sees. I could tame a pigeon, perhaps, but never a hawk.
I try to make you cry. Pepper joy with pain. I paint dandelions into stories of your poverty; Focus on the strength of your father’s dying hands. Allow you to discard your dreams in feathered bags.
I whisper the music of a different future, and you smile, seeing what I saw in store. Pretty, native boys and European tours. Your poster on a street post, endorsements from German firms. You buy a home for your parents and send your sister to Italy. You smile. You are married in a Church, before God. You sigh.
The sound of that happiness is my music. I paint a picture of your perfect life without me. Is this my art? And it’s at this point I become so utterly silly and try to make you laugh uncontrollably. This is your past, too, and I see you radiate. I almost have the courage to tell myself that what I’ve given you is nearly as good as what you’ve given up.