5.11 am. Waiting for her tea to steep.
The tension nagged at her temples and she reached for the nearly-empty bottle of Tylenol. Another thing to add to the shopping list. Poor liver.
“I wish I was an artist,” she thought. To have that outlet would be a relief, she believed. A way to empty your cluttered mind, make friends with your demons, soothe your discomfort. Release the years of bitterness and anger that lurked in those places that terrified you.
But it wasn’t meant to be. She wasn’t the type, if she was being honest with herself. Art was for people who were innately free, not those who kept tarnished padlocks on their souls.