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.
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