I wish I could paint.
If I could, I'd paint my demon, to bring it to eye level;
to make it smaller, easier to imagine, and less formidable;
to make it look into my eyes, and tear it up with a cutter when my pain is unbearable.
I wish I could paint my dreams, to make them more reachable;
to bring them to life, to keep them alive, or at least make them visible.
I wish I could paint my fever, fervour and soul, to make them more tractable;
to make them less suppressed and enfeeble.
But I can't paint.