" I’m ashamed of that painting. In another universe, I would’ve pained and labored by the rule of thirds, some sense of perspective- where were my muses? Why was that misty moon lingering so lightly in the cloudscape, perfectly undone a fourth of an inch too far to the left? Therein lies the issue- my initials sit smugly in the corner southeast. I made too much room for myself, and not enough room for… beauty.
I admire the scantily clad but strikes me also is the soul when nude. I saw it on my lover’s face, I will see it tomorrow in the face of my best friend, sometimes I see it in the rarity of my most amicable reflection. For now, I’m in my bedroom, this wild animal’s chamber, and I abandon all manners. That is not very cordial of me. Don’t I know I’m always watching? Calculated responses fall flatly upon deaf ears- ears transfixed by earbuds and sapphic sorrow-songs. In all your clairvoyance, you overlooked your vanity.
Wouldn’t dare betray my superego, but id is my very best friend. We simply cannot help it. We are blind creatures in a cave, albino and fragile, separated and sessile for millennia. We conjure up stories and obsess over who is more see-through, who is more agile, who is strongest… yet innermost we are frail. We are watching the light of a campfire, from the imaginary dawn ‘til the fairytale of dusk, from the alpha to the omega, but our eyes will for-never be unbound to the cave wall before us. It slips my mind sometimes: light comes in every color. Why then did I paint my walls blue?
One last thought… it’s indicative. There is a fault within each of us, umbering with the ripeness of us. One day soon, we will be nothing more than a memory. And before that? Fallen fruit. When one floats among fellow tourists at the Parthenon, the allure is in the illusory: 'Ah, but imagine what it was like back then.' "
