It must get lonely living in a painting. Trapped. A bunch of spectators staring. Flashing. Observing.

But are they even looking?

They queue and some of them push and shove through all just to see me. Or just to say they’ve seen me. I’ve become a commodity. I’m another item on a to-do list: cross me off and then carry on with it. Tell your friends you’ve done it.

I thought it would be exciting having a load of people watching. But I’m trapped as they are staring and moving and living. I sit in this painting, quiet and still while they judge and say as they will. They like and then dislike, follow and then unfollow. Point out what’s right, what’s wrong, what could’ve been better, what isn’t enough. It isn’t actually about me. It’s all about what they see.

Whether it’s bombs blowing up babies on the TV or celebrities on the front of magazines. Whether it’s sleeping on the side of the street or sharing a holiday reel. It isn’t about the reality. It’s about what you feel is worthy. It isn’t about caring, it’s about resharing and comparing.

It isn’t about me, it’s about what you wish to see.