� To paint � 2003-09-16 � 5:37 p.m. �
Sometimes I wish I could paint here.
With my fingers... like a child on brown paper laid gently on the floor...
Pushing paint... and molding colours like a true Picasso.
I hate sometimes that I am bound by words here... volcabulary is so limiting... and even the finest to speak our language fight to find the proper words in the best of times... for the worst of times....
But an artist can always paint it.
I know what it would look like... the canvas, if this was... yellow... and black... and grey... with a tiny bit of blue.
Yellow isn't the colour of happiness.
It is more the colour of grief and uncertainty... of anguish... and if anyone has every truly studied art, they'd notice the saddest men in time used yellow in all their work.
I can relate to that... like the leaf that still sits lonely in the tree... even with snow weighing it down... it is one of a kind.
I know that feeling... the pressure in my head of knowing and not knowing... of believing that I will always learn from my past... but still knowing I never will.
The sky is molten grey and white. It's cold. Bitterly so and I feel like a fool being mocked in the breeze.
But I am too far from a common element to say anything... so mittened hands in the pockets of my peacoat... I breathe deep until the ice freezes me... I think quietly and quickly... I sigh... and I am on my way.
� previous � next � comments � diaryland � old �