I feel like a jackson pollock

the one with the grays, blacks, whites and bits of cream.
(probably called "number 12" or something.)

I feel like I'm standing in front of the canvas, with my nose almost touching. The lines are harsh and the splatters are chaotic and it's all around me. It's all I can see. It's too much. Too much to process.

I know when I take a step back, far enough to see the edge of the canvas wrap around the frame, that it will be ok. Seeing all the chaos encompassed, seeing the patterns and trends and methodical splatters is all right, maybe even beautiful.

though I know there is a border, and I know the paint stops somewhere, it's hard to remember when my nose is wet with grays and blacks.
but I must.
I must remember there is a therapeutic result in process.
I must be patient.

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