I once bought an old kitchen table with the intention of painting it white. I did, but I used the wrong paint so it looked terrible and uneven. I should have stripped it and started over but I was lazy, so I just got new paint and painted over it. The paint rippled and bubbled and looked even worse, yet I did that twice more before coming to terms with the fact that this table was a total loss and I didn’t care anymore. The easy fix had become too hard. Repairing everything I had done to cover up my mistakes seemed too daunting. And somewhere in the dead of night Bob Vila awoke in a cold sweat and shed a solitary tear.
My head has become this manic courtroom waiting for a judge to pound the gavel and call for order. I can’t stop thinking about that table I left in Japan and how beautiful it could have been had I taken the time and done things right. I can’t stop thinking about all my mistakes and missteps, caked in cheap paint, quietly bubbling up to the surface no matter how many layers I blanket over them. I look back on the past few months and it almost seems as though I've been in a period of mourning. Detaching yourself from the image of what you thought your life would be is no easy thing. I'm not exactly sure how to articulate it, but I have become increasingly aware that I don't feel good. I feel like a phony somehow. As though these layers have taken on a life of their own and have been running the show.