Everyday we awake presents us a new canvas to create something new. Some are GREAT some are merely okay, but no matter what they are, they are ours and could have been created by no one else.
I used to move away whenever life got too twisted for me. It wasn’t healthy, but now I’ve lived in the same small town for 8 years, and the stagnancy is killing me.
so she would spin and paint it / fresh sides always / he kept adding dimensions / to the universe,/i>
maybe it’s not the fresh paint on increasing dimensions that matters.
to the art critic, the viewer, the audience -well maybe it does.
to the artist though, to the one painting, maybe it’s the colorful memories that the process of painting evokes that puts the world at a standstill and makes the moment so precious…
it’s the tears the dark hues reminds him of that becomes cathartic and brings out that creative passion.
as a writer would get lost in revery when faced with words that ignite emotions, so would a painter spin and add fresh paint to different dimensions
without the need for any reason.
maybe he gives nary a thought about the dimensions.
maybe he needs to see the dimensions in a new different light so he could let the light and dark play out before his very eyes.
maybe he’s filled with emotions he can’t let out.
maybe he’s plain bored.
maybe he just has a lot of paint he doesn’t wanna go to waste.
Everyday we awake presents us a new canvas to create something new. Some are GREAT some are merely okay, but no matter what they are, they are ours and could have been created by no one else.
I am just painting on the remaining canvas allowed me.
If I could but freely access the kinds of canvass I like, the way I used to, maybe i could still rekindle my passion for life.
But…
I could no longer do that.
For eons of years till now.
So I paint.
…and I cry.
For I used to paint rainbows in the sky.
… and all I have now are these dark shades of paint.
I don’t wanna tarnish my rainbow.
… so i make do with what I have.
and draw the dark.
I used to move away whenever life got too twisted for me. It wasn’t healthy, but now I’ve lived in the same small town for 8 years, and the stagnancy is killing me.
so she would spin and paint it / fresh sides always / he kept adding dimensions / to the universe,/i>
maybe it’s not the fresh paint on increasing dimensions that matters.
to the art critic, the viewer, the audience -well maybe it does.
to the artist though, to the one painting, maybe it’s the colorful memories that the process of painting evokes that puts the world at a standstill and makes the moment so precious…
it’s the tears the dark hues reminds him of that becomes cathartic and brings out that creative passion.
as a writer would get lost in revery when faced with words that ignite emotions, so would a painter spin and add fresh paint to different dimensions
without the need for any reason.
maybe he gives nary a thought about the dimensions.
maybe he needs to see the dimensions in a new different light so he could let the light and dark play out before his very eyes.
maybe he’s filled with emotions he can’t let out.
maybe he’s plain bored.
maybe he just has a lot of paint he doesn’t wanna go to waste.
maybe.
a lot of maybes.
Like the sides.
and the dimensions.
replenish and turn…
replenish and turn.