(no subject)
Being young is an awesome justification for fucking, being fucked and getting fucked up. “You’re only young once” is a line I use to silence the nagging thoughts resonating in my mind about the person I have been, or can surely become. I like to imagine ways to justify my behavior to any type of critic. Rehearse the cunning relays to a quick question from a potential defender. Perhaps the largest defender is just myself, a deeply rooted plant of goodness inside me urging me to reevaluate my relationships, my actions.
I think this is why I’m afraid to touch the word document. In it, I’m encouraging every shred of myself to move to the front and participate. Urging the thoughts to find their voices.
If I were any type of artist I would be Matisse. He feared his craziness, though he knew he needed it to unearth his passions onto canvas. He painted only in day time, reveled in its safe sunlight and conventional work day routines. He used color as his muse, mixing the brightest, thickest color companies to employ a sense of happiness he may or may not have ever had. Basically, he painted the score of a happy life’s orchestra that was so far from his. An imposter of some regard, because I’m sure deep down he knew the flushing blues were really his calling. I retract the statement that I am like Matisse, which is way too conceited. His artistic prowess is moon-jumps beyond me, but he’s one of the few great artistic masters I feel I can identify with on an emotional level.
I think this is why I’m afraid to touch the word document. In it, I’m encouraging every shred of myself to move to the front and participate. Urging the thoughts to find their voices.
If I were any type of artist I would be Matisse. He feared his craziness, though he knew he needed it to unearth his passions onto canvas. He painted only in day time, reveled in its safe sunlight and conventional work day routines. He used color as his muse, mixing the brightest, thickest color companies to employ a sense of happiness he may or may not have ever had. Basically, he painted the score of a happy life’s orchestra that was so far from his. An imposter of some regard, because I’m sure deep down he knew the flushing blues were really his calling. I retract the statement that I am like Matisse, which is way too conceited. His artistic prowess is moon-jumps beyond me, but he’s one of the few great artistic masters I feel I can identify with on an emotional level.