While I'm sweeping

While I'm sweeping,

I think about starting over,

about the eternal return.

More paint, more layers, more of what matters to me.

Erase.

Repaint.

Remake.

I keep sweeping,

I look down and realise,

almost everything I'm picking up is myself.

What a mirror of reality

the dust.

I push the broom.

How tiring it is to start back again after a failure,

how bitter to leave behind without forgetting.

A painting

A path

A person

I look at the dustpan.

On it there’s a lot about what I choose art to be.

And probably not just art.

I refuse to accept the dust.

If I accept it, I accept that nothing matters.

I finish sweeping

for today.

Tomorrow I'll have to start all over again.