It's who I am trying to be. I was not this before. I might have had it inside of me, but I wasn't it. I can feel all of it, I can feel the world just under my skin, and I WANT to let it free... but the real world encroaches and stifles. It drags its claws over my art, through my dreams. It rends the hope I try to keep close to me useless at times.
The real world sucks the art out of a body, and injects it with morbid fascination. It creates desires for the common, and numbs the spirit. It clamps our wings closed and makes us earthbound, with only a memory of the sky in the fleeting corner of out imagination.
Who do you want to be? It's getting late, as Derek Dick once sang, for scribbling and scratching on the paper. It's time to grab the tail of a star, hold it close to your heart, and fly. It's time to resist the gravity of the everyday. It's time to see the sky under you, time to know the feeling of freedom, and not just the ordinary freedom of escaping from the bland, shriveled existence most of us eek out. It's time to know freedom as the rushing wind tearing past the tender skin on your face, seeing the ground come towards you as you reach terminal velocity. Feeling the sky, itself, pulling at your shirt tails begging you to slow your descent, but throwing a hand behind and loosening its grasp.
I am the Sun, Chasing his Mistress Moon.
I am Whispering Willows caressing Faery Skin.
I am the Servant.
I am the Master.
I am Powerful.
I am Loved, and Lover.
I am Light and Darkness.
I am Wicked.
I Am Artist.
Who do I want to be?
ReplyDeleteIt's funny how we stop asking ourselves that question once we grow up. And it's funny how I thought I knew that answer.
"More" is a damn good answer. And a goal I plan to work toward. One I never should have lost sight of.
Thanks, you. You keep flying. <3
You ARE Artist. You have The Eyes That See Beyond.
ReplyDeleteYou claw back at that real world and shake it the hell UP! You turn it on its bourgeois ear! Show it what is leeching the color from it, and now show it how it can stop the bleeding. You, Truthteller. You, Martin. YOU.
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."