I like to paint. Mostly on canvas, but I draw in a sketch book with a plain old pencil, erasing runaway lines with a little white stub of an eraser. These are my hobbies, my artful foray into expressing myself in tangible ways the eye can see.
You draw too, but your words are stronger, heavier, more tangible than colors on medium.
Your words paint pictures in my mind. Brilliant, gory pictures in full color, etched into the thoughts that permeate my entire being. Your pictures are infused with feelings that bring them to life so that they shout at me while I drink my coffee, read my emails, even sleep.
A conversation with you fills me to the brim with horror, frustration, depression, anger at myself that I cannot be better, do not feel sympathy for you, that I dredge up only anger and feelings of futility. We are not good for each other.
I cannot give you what you need and you give me things I cannot live with.
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