Even in her old age, my grandmother still looked young. A sweet, soft innocence in her river blue eyes, sandy blonde hair, and warm, cozy bosom, where babies nested in their swaddle. The fuzz of her cerulean fleece matched her sweetness. Her softness. Her comfort. I was a babe, resting in a vibrant red swaddle, a white knit cap tightly bound over my small little head.
I am so lonely, I think to myself, staring at the photo of Sally looking up at me, it’s a good checkpoint for me, as to whether my feelings are still working, if I can invoke guttural grief by studying a photo of her.
My uncle would always tell me, I am so far off from how I perceive myself and from how others perceive me. Those words hurt, since I perceive myself as a talent that makes movie stars. I am a creator, a silent star, shining, watching from above.
What he meant was that I still have a long way to go. Thoughts take time to manifest in the 3D. Nonetheless, it sucks being constantly told you are not what you think you are. Your art stinks. You’re an idiot. Folly, futile dreams!
[seeking praise and recognition for being a talented artist, still working on becoming and fully believing it myself].
Rosie Today 
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