Week In Wrap

What a hard week it's been.
I'll tell you, intestinal stress issues. Lack of sleep. Lost a friend.
Yep, I wrote a handwritten letter to close the book. That means I put ink to paper.
What bugs me, I guess...it I knew better. Somehow, I knew better. Not that I resent doing these projects. Just that, for all the years we'd collaborated, she preferred to move on with someone else. Because of reasons that had nothing to do with art. I think that hurts the most. That none of what we did together amounted to much. As I'm sure it doesn't effect her as much it does me. For what reason? I have no idea, other than perhaps I was excited we were making stuff together.
At this point, the hardest part is going to be boxed out of any part of her world. Which...rightfully so, but still sucks. Because I am a reminder of how shitty shitty people are. Even though I wasn't being shitty but honest from my heart. I've also been doing a shit-ton of research on this personality type now and everything matches to all the traits you're warned about. The seductive first hit of a person who admires you. Then the steep drop on your head for the next shiny toy. Then repeat. It hurts because I've now been burned even though I tried so hard to make it work. Perspective.

It makes me think of all those hard nosed producers who must be sociopaths. Robert Evans comes to mind. Having his wife Ali MacGraw at the time, hook up with Steve McQueen on "The Getaway" while they had a son. Yes, cuckholded in public. With money and fame involved. Now someone else was sharing the front page. And it must've been a royal kick in the nuts. Friends too.

Loyalty and betrayal to me have always been over-dramatized words. When you think of "that person betrayed me!" You feel like a literary silly goose. So poofty. But, the actual act is less than humorous. And has destroyed us from the inside out. Secrets, and gossip that exists between two tight lipped people. The reality...most likely not even salacious. But it replays over and over again...what happened to the fun it all use to be?

It's a lot of jealousy, of course. Sad empty feelings, once so passionate about craft. Or was that a part of the ruse. But what to gain? Need is only reason I am identified. Was I liked for being me or for what I could do. One never knows. And no one is immune. Lack of empathy. Lack of self. The words slash and cut, as the you interpret the voice of the infatuation written in the glowing light of text. You know who REALLY wrote it. Yet, you are no longer part of it. She takes on his identity and leaves your shadow to fade. Random thoughts drift over to the one she really wants to spend time thinking about, working with. And we're all on the discarded pile. Art is all that mattered to me. Still is. Always will be.