My parents surprised me with an easel the other day. It was gorgeous, carved narra, taller than my rickety bookstore one.
So I painted.
It's a lot easier to paint, to just let colors mix and stroke the canvass with hues, because then I don't have to think about anything.
Like how I'm still at odds with my closest group of friends, over my superficial changes.
And how I won't celebrate my birthday, for the first time, with my grandfather, and how no one will probably remember that it was OUR birthday, and not just mine.
Three more days. I hope the painting gets finished before then.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Inamorato
I see him not, and yet I see him still.
He's out there, and though he's no longer wearing armour he's still a knight-a-shining. I have to believe he's out there somehow, the compliment to my dark mirror.
And I am mixing allegories with the best of them.
This will be my personal journal, for those thoughts too private to be shared by friends, yet less prosaic than written in my spiral-bound notebook.
I'm a bit worried I'm compartmentalizing myself, but there must be SOME outlet where I can vent my darker half. Or at least my more pathetic one.
Keep spinning, wheel.
He's out there, and though he's no longer wearing armour he's still a knight-a-shining. I have to believe he's out there somehow, the compliment to my dark mirror.
And I am mixing allegories with the best of them.
This will be my personal journal, for those thoughts too private to be shared by friends, yet less prosaic than written in my spiral-bound notebook.
I'm a bit worried I'm compartmentalizing myself, but there must be SOME outlet where I can vent my darker half. Or at least my more pathetic one.
Keep spinning, wheel.
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