"If I am going to buy a race horse, I'm not going to buy it in Huntsville" -Lawler
And just like that the gallery bomb was dropped on me.
"So you mean... a gallery in Houston?"
I could bite my lip till it bleeds.
The fear is very real. I am sitting at my desk wondering what will become of me.
Doing research has me dabbling in the life of real artists. Yet here I am as if I am one of them. I have stood on this side of the line for so long, I may have already forgotten where it is I have to crossover.
It feels as if I am pretending.
Am I here? It doesn't feel right. Not yet. Please.
I am standing, pleading.
At the edge of the lake, I am fifteen again, and my lungs are collapsing.
I am screaming "I am not ready!" and no one hears me.
Prickling up my throat. I can't breathe.
They laugh and I am reaching.
The lake mocks me with my reflection.
Every time. The fear of the unknown. And I am at the edge again.