Humor is a great thing. The minute I feel laughter kiss my lips and a smile spread across my face, all my irritations and resentments melt away
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Rather long .... -sighs-resurected_soulOctober 14 2005, 14:23:18 UTC
I would love to form a creative bond with you. We are a rare breed friend. We see things in ways that some people may never be able to. We see beauty in even the most ugliest things for we know true ugliness. And, even greater, we have the courage and the strength to lie it down on paper, canvas, film, ect. Yet we face the facts. We know and yet continue to strive for that understanding from the world that we will never recieve. I suppose it is our finding others like us that we do this, but still it does seem hopeless.
Who but we will understand the words we put forth. Those boxes of text that meaning may change from person to person from perspective to perspective. But who truely knows what we really mean. Do we even know?
One thing I find myself wondering about lately and has been brought from the back to the front of my mind is when we see ourselves as invisable, aren't we still seen? When we ourselves become invisible within our own mind are we not seen more for our look of complete woe? I had never even concidered it untill someone pointed it out to me. People do see our distress, but they don't care. Not enough to say "Hey, what's wrong?" But enough to ignore and press on as though nothing were seen. Because they know in their hearts they are not capable of helping us. Our kind is unique. I say our kind as not to single us out or to say that I know exactly what you go through. No one can know what another person goes through no matter how well you know that person. No, I say our "kind" as the dark artists of the pen, the paint, and the mighty eye. The artists eye which few poses. Found through deep meditation and passion for the arts. Usually only found after weeping or gazeing into the void and suddenly seeing the beauty in the little insignificant things of this world so overlooked. There is nothing more beautiful than a large patch of grass swaying in the wind.
Who but we will understand the words we put forth. Those boxes of text that meaning may change from person to person from perspective to perspective. But who truely knows what we really mean. Do we even know?
One thing I find myself wondering about lately and has been brought from the back to the front of my mind is when we see ourselves as invisable, aren't we still seen? When we ourselves become invisible within our own mind are we not seen more for our look of complete woe? I had never even concidered it untill someone pointed it out to me. People do see our distress, but they don't care. Not enough to say "Hey, what's wrong?" But enough to ignore and press on as though nothing were seen. Because they know in their hearts they are not capable of helping us. Our kind is unique. I say our kind as not to single us out or to say that I know exactly what you go through. No one can know what another person goes through no matter how well you know that person. No, I say our "kind" as the dark artists of the pen, the paint, and the mighty eye. The artists eye which few poses. Found through deep meditation and passion for the arts. Usually only found after weeping or gazeing into the void and suddenly seeing the beauty in the little insignificant things of this world so overlooked. There is nothing more beautiful than a large patch of grass swaying in the wind.
Love always,
Nanna
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