Vignette From Solstice 35

Vignette from Solstice 35
I am a great artist and I know it. The reason I am great is because of all the suffering I have done. (Paul Gauguin)

Pieces, that's all she had left. A million pieces of her life strewn everywhere. It was like breaking one of your favorite mugs and all of the shards were scattered across the floor. Some stayed beneath your feet for you to step on immediately, some hidden under the counters or random pieces of furniture for you to discover later. Some pieces just disappeared forever. Maybe they were pulverized by the impact against the tile or they were so obvious they were impossible to see. Later on, when you'd forgotten them, walking barefoot in the kitchen one morning making tea, you'd step on a sharp piece and it would go right through the bottom of you foot leaving a bloody gash.

Now, I'm going to put 35 of these pieces on display for all the world to read. I'm even going to read some of these poems tonight to give them voice in the universe. I keep telling myself this is art, meaningful writing. I wonder if it isn't just my punishment. Do I really believe that great art comes from great pain and suffering like Gauguin? Or am I just a masochist? Or just plain fucked up and deserved all of this? Shit, all I know is that the writing is fucking fantastic.