My Enthusiasm Sometimes Dies

I went to my art studio to view my latest paintings, because frankly, I had completely forgotten what I was working on, or whether I was working on anything. I recognized none of the paintings on first glance, then one of the skies rang a bell. I remember adding too much glitter and being annoyed with myself. They are all my style, and I have used my favorite colors, so I guess they are my paintings. My signature neons grin at me from three or four unfinished canvases. Pinks, blues, yellows, greens, reds, and lots of oranges. I love orange! It is maybe my favorite color this year. My enthusiasm for these canvases has waned, maybe totally died even. She expired so quickly, I do not care about finishing them. Like my poetry, I often do not recognize facets of my personality as she flings herself onto a page, into a word processor, or against a rough linen canvas. These ideas clearly live within, but so deep, I do not bother to keep them in my conscious mind or cherish them after I am finished with them. I am so irreverent to my stuff, it should be embarrassing. But it is not.