"Used To Be"
By Drew Day
I used to be an artist. So long ago... I used to be so passionate. I could feel the energy move through my head into
my heart, out my finger tips and through the brush, with every stroke. I used to be in that paint. I was part of that
drawing. All my life, all the expectations, all the build up, and I was not happy. What inspired me I began to hate, my
skin would crawl and my eyes would burn with every trip to continue this work that suddenly was not me. In a temple
where I should have felt welcome, I was an outsider, and even while being at the top of my peers I would not fit in.
Could not. It made me question the word "normal" and what it really meant.
I used to be a writer. Words came to me like taking a breath. I could inhale and write humorous dialog for hours,
without hesitation, without question.
Now, I am hollow. Blank. Empty.
I used to be a lover. I used to crave, desire, lust and conquer the world itself with the power of gods. I would carve
my name through a forest or throw down thunder from atop the mountains. I would not stand by and let things
happen, I made things happen. I used to care, I used to dream, most of all I used to feel.
I am callous, hard, rigid, stubborn and dark. As a result of changes in my own mind or due to failure, I do not know
which, I sit flowing darkness, self loathing and disdain for everything I know. I grasp at the last of my hopes, in an
effort to bring success, to bring happiness, to somehow regain that which I had but has somehow been lost within
myself or this life - again, I do not know which, only that it is there, and it burns deeply within me.
Hiding. Always moving, afraid of being discovered, trying to conceal the monster within. Each day becomes
tiresome, harder, much harder, to control the beast, to control the red hot seething burn within myself.
An illusion. Is that what this is? Escape, a way to hide, another cover, another layer of armor, another false hope?
Acceptance undeserving, perhaps in vain, unneeded. Gritting teeth. Distortion, never repenting, always caught up
in the moment without time to look behind, all the time knowing it happens without a way to stop it. Powerless to
control it.
By Drew Day
I used to be an artist. So long ago... I used to be so passionate. I could feel the energy move through my head into
my heart, out my finger tips and through the brush, with every stroke. I used to be in that paint. I was part of that
drawing. All my life, all the expectations, all the build up, and I was not happy. What inspired me I began to hate, my
skin would crawl and my eyes would burn with every trip to continue this work that suddenly was not me. In a temple
where I should have felt welcome, I was an outsider, and even while being at the top of my peers I would not fit in.
Could not. It made me question the word "normal" and what it really meant.
I used to be a writer. Words came to me like taking a breath. I could inhale and write humorous dialog for hours,
without hesitation, without question.
Now, I am hollow. Blank. Empty.
I used to be a lover. I used to crave, desire, lust and conquer the world itself with the power of gods. I would carve
my name through a forest or throw down thunder from atop the mountains. I would not stand by and let things
happen, I made things happen. I used to care, I used to dream, most of all I used to feel.
I am callous, hard, rigid, stubborn and dark. As a result of changes in my own mind or due to failure, I do not know
which, I sit flowing darkness, self loathing and disdain for everything I know. I grasp at the last of my hopes, in an
effort to bring success, to bring happiness, to somehow regain that which I had but has somehow been lost within
myself or this life - again, I do not know which, only that it is there, and it burns deeply within me.
Hiding. Always moving, afraid of being discovered, trying to conceal the monster within. Each day becomes
tiresome, harder, much harder, to control the beast, to control the red hot seething burn within myself.
An illusion. Is that what this is? Escape, a way to hide, another cover, another layer of armor, another false hope?
Acceptance undeserving, perhaps in vain, unneeded. Gritting teeth. Distortion, never repenting, always caught up
in the moment without time to look behind, all the time knowing it happens without a way to stop it. Powerless to
control it.
New Hampshire Writers Flash Fiction
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