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It's Getting Better acrylic on cardboard

Blocked out the light, the life, the living, the things that made him hurt. Hurt was something that slowed him down, and he couldn't afford to slow down, couldn't afford to stop. Couldn't afford to cry or feel or spend days musing over how this feeling affected him. He had wasted so many days thinking and feeling bad, or lost in his own mind only to emerge a month later feeling good about life, about the things he discovered. He shook, his eyes burned, he threw up -almost involuntarily- after every meal. He felt sick, he jerked off as a mechanism so that he didn't have to think about how much he missed sex, or even contact or- No time to think about things like that. No time to spend on needless thoughts. He'd wasted too much time already. Get back to work, get back to building a good foundation for life, for living, for walking into the light of a future he can imagine. A fututre where he would be allowed the luxury of thinking and feeling, even therapy. But now is time for work. He gets back to it and wonders if he'll die before the work is done. Of course, when people ask him how he's doing, he smiles like the pillar of strength he conditioned them all to believe he was and says "Oh you know, it's not better yet, but it's getting better."