(no subject)
I know myself and I hold thineself to be true, genuinely truthful.
But doubt becomes my conscience over my own believed truths, at times.
My fallacious stability breaks the ice beneath my feet and freezing everything Ive ever known.
Hypothermically depleting me. Its a stretch I know but at times I'd like to believe that's
my beautiful apathy. My want of independence, but my fear there of. Paradox eh? The burden
that plagues me. Its as if I know so much to know so little. Like my knowledge is not an amount
to the divinity in which you believe. My beauty is not seen, my stability not known, my legacy not heard of, my emotions not felt. Yet I contradictingly pour my heart out on paper for you to sarcastically depict all
of what you want to. Why? Because deception is 'oh so much' more enthralling to brusque reality.
Axiomatic truth is so black and white. So I paint with my life and color with my soul. Only those deep enough to understand, will. I paint with the colors I've known to love. The reds, greys, and blacks of my existance. Depressed it might seem but I am not. Not anymore at least. Red is for my passion for life, for love, for survival. And Black for the realities of that same passion, life, love & survival. Grey for everything I havent of yet made sense of. You cannot always hope for perfection. With that there is no lesson to be taught. There must be a co-existance of good and evil, light and day, depression & joy, lucifer and god, belial and benevolence, life and death.
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