Feeding a ghost

I was unhappy being a writter, so I became a painter. At first I started painting some of the characters out of my stories, painting myself was never an option. I promised myself never to paint anything ugly, that included selfportrets. The first character I did put on the canvas was Portian. A young man with half long blond hair and a heavy beard, with in his right hand the hamer he used to make his sculptures with. Portian always fascinated me, he was a man I loved to use in my stories. In plenty of my writings he was the man that sculpted the images of lovers in an embrace or kiss, of ancient gods in which he believed, or the perfect woman, his beloved wife.

When I was happy with seeing Portian with my own eyes, the time was right to start my next painting: The sweet Anita in her lovely blue dress, laying on the grass, staring at the sky, dreaming of things to come. Anita was a woman in her twenties, always putting on a dress and wearing high heels. Long, very long, black hair. Beautiful brown eyes, a lightly colored skin, a cute little nose and   kissable lips, a woman too beautiful to be alive. A challenge to draw and put her on a canvas, a mission impossible. Nonetheless I was happy with the result, her dress just above her knees, the right knee bend and the left leg covered by the grass she was laying in. With next to that leg her blue heels, the ones she always wore under her sexiest dress.

Now I wanted to draw the Ice Queen and Cassiopeia together on one canvas. My first two works were lightly, happy work. I wanted to get some more drama into my paintings. So why not put on two of the characters that brought out the dark side in me? The Ice Queen was rather easy to draw,   an ice covered woman up in some mountains of ice. But Cassiopeia, I never imagined how she would be, she was a ghost, a beautiful one. I never could seperate her from a woman I knew in real life, my own Cassiopeia. And I became unhappy, after the unhappiness as a writer, now I felt unhappy being a painter. And all because of Cassiopeia.

The solution would be easy, I loved writing until I wrote about Cassiopeia. I loved painting until I painted about Cassiopeia. So why not write and paint about things that were not that ghost? I could not do it anymore, every story or painting would now be filled with her, I was doomed to change directions...

And so I became a singer, next a poet, next a sculpturer, but all stories ended the same. Nothing made me happy, and all because of a ghost. Ghosts can ruin our lives if we feed them...