(no subject)
Everybody will die. It seems pointless to try. Some wonder why my world is black with sorrow. Why welcome tomorrow when today is just an empty, loathsome lie? Why search for kindness when the well of love's compassion has run dry? If I believed in God I'd ask Him, "Why can't one single ray of joy shine on this melancholy boy? Why have you burdened me with wealth, exquisite looks and perfect health?" When I regard a life so bleak a hot wet tear rolls down my cheek; big as my eye, my face is never dry. I hate these clothes upon my back; this sweater has a scratchy tag. I hate these books upon my shelf, but most of all I hate myself. Could someone please just tell me why I try and try and try to paint in color and change my mind and paint it black. When I look at the heavens all I want to see is a dark angel looking back at me. I could die with an angel. Angel come to me. My angel. I paint to see a world I've never known. A world in which I'm not alone. Votre jour, ma vie en noir.