I stood there, just the other night, surrounded by all these fancy folks with their little glasses of wine, every single one of them looking at my painting like it was the most amazing thing they’d ever seen. And they were saying all these wonderful things, you know, “Oh, the depth! The passion! The way the light just… *dances*!” And I just nodded, smiled, said thank you, every thank you felt like a lie. Because all I could see was the wall behind it, and the price tag on the little card. That’s it. It used to be different. I used to feel something when the brush hit the canvas. Like a little electric shock, every single day, every day. Remember those old paychecks? Barely enough to keep the lights on, but I had paint. And I had the feeling. I’d wake up and just know, deep down, that I had to put those colors down. It was like a hunger, a real ache in my bones. I’d save up for good brushes, or that one really expensive tube of cerulean blue, because it was worth it. Worth skipping lunch, worth wearing the same old sweater for another year. Worth it. But standing there, under those spotlights, listening to the compliments… it was just… a painting. A thing I made. Like building a shed, or patching a roof. Just another job done. The colors looked flat to me. The passion they were talking about? It felt like something I’d put on like a costume, years ago, and forgotten how to take off. Like an old uniform I still wear even though I got laid off a decade back. I just kept thinking about the bills, the car payment, the heating oil that’s going to go up again next winter. The money. ALWAYS the money. Someone asked me, “What inspired this piece?” And I almost laughed. What inspired it? The deadline, honey. The gallery commission. The fact that the mortgage was due. That’s what inspired it. I mumbled something about the changing light in the alley behind my old studio, which was true enough, but not the *real* truth. The real truth is, I sold something. Not the painting. Something inside me. A little piece of the spark, every time I picked up the brush for a reason that wasn’t just… because. And now here I am, late at night, staring at my own hands, which are still stained with a little bit of blue under the nail from that big piece. And I don’t feel proud. I feel empty. Like I stole something, honestly. Stole it from the person I used to be, the one who painted because she *had* to, not because she *needed* to. Is that a bad thing? To finally have enough, but to feel like you lost everything in the getting? I don't know. Just trying to figure it out. Guess I’ll try to sleep.