How is it that I don't mind doing stupid things? Yes very Stupid things indeed.
And how is it that I forget so quickly?
But I, I have changed.
Somebody scribbled chalk all over my blackboard. MY BLACKBOARD.
Merciless chalk, of a thousand different shades with texture that's ever so sure, ever so prominent- and if you ever tried rubbing it off, it smudges and the shades blend.
So much so that you cannot identify the previous shade anymore nor comprehend how the phenomenon/wrong move of a touch could make you lose what you had before.
It has become a new shade altogether.
Like how you allow things to happen. Stupid things indeed.
And have you heard the sound it makes when it skids? It's a fucking long screech. And it gives you goosebumps.
It makes your heart beat like a voodoo drum; you can't control it.
Fuck, the colours are overwhelming. Some warm, some cold. But the cold colours appeal more to the eye; they capture my heart far more than the flaming reds, the cosy browns, the sunny golds and the petal pinks. Therapy, yes? Or no?
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You hear that?
He shouts!
You giggle
You whisper
You scream
You wail
He whispers
The screaming stops
And evidence of a life shabbily led and a heart recklessly abandoned floods the entire canvas.
"Baby, you have to redo it." Advice, yes. Advice helps, doesn't it?
After all, not everyone buys your art.
And how is it that I forget so quickly?
But I, I have changed.
Somebody scribbled chalk all over my blackboard. MY BLACKBOARD.
Merciless chalk, of a thousand different shades with texture that's ever so sure, ever so prominent- and if you ever tried rubbing it off, it smudges and the shades blend.
So much so that you cannot identify the previous shade anymore nor comprehend how the phenomenon/wrong move of a touch could make you lose what you had before.
It has become a new shade altogether.
Like how you allow things to happen. Stupid things indeed.
And have you heard the sound it makes when it skids? It's a fucking long screech. And it gives you goosebumps.
It makes your heart beat like a voodoo drum; you can't control it.
Fuck, the colours are overwhelming. Some warm, some cold. But the cold colours appeal more to the eye; they capture my heart far more than the flaming reds, the cosy browns, the sunny golds and the petal pinks. Therapy, yes? Or no?
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You hear that?
He shouts!
You giggle
You whisper
You scream
You wail
He whispers
The screaming stops
And evidence of a life shabbily led and a heart recklessly abandoned floods the entire canvas.
"Baby, you have to redo it." Advice, yes. Advice helps, doesn't it?
After all, not everyone buys your art.
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