I write to write. I paint to see.
How else do i explain my temporary insanity? Other than my thoughts overflow into print. And then i run with them, as a flirt to power.
I study human behavior as a hobby. I honestly believe we all strive for attention. What is my excuse? We would all be far better off climbing back into our suitcases and traveling on to a promised land.
Am I beginning to make sense? Finally? I took an Advil Pm 30 minutes ago. And instead of falling asleep, my mind started racing towards the finish line. “Don’t die yet? The best is yet to come!” Oh, how i dearly want to believe.
So i write. A love letter. A flirtatious epic to myself. With all the obvious jargon of the day. And i secretly stash it into a back pocket, hoping someone would come along and steal all the selfish bull crap ive stored. The letter now written, better explained as love hoarded for myself.
Which brings me to my favorite life artist, Van Gogh. He was not part of polite society. Yet he loved the world more than those who bothered to say “Pardon me.” to fellow men waiting in line for their stab at being known. Ironic that the most evasive was the winner.
Aesop understood human behavior far better than i ever will. And i beg to differ with him as well. I dont really want to know much. Just warming myself by the fire and reading the smoke signals left to inform me, i am still alive.
If you make sense of this, you are far smarter than me. Please explain to me how you know!