still life
Some artists can create from their imagination. They imagine what a lemon looks like and paint it. If i were an artist, i'd paint a lemon from a still life. My imagination is narrow. Whenever i'm inspired by something i see or hear, i start to write and i can't stop when i do. It gets delirious for me sometimes, all the endorphins being released when i'm done writing. Kinda like being in love, except there's only me, myself and i.
But i is a lonely word.
I am happy. I am burning with fury, i am crying, i am lost. It sounds lonely. I want someone to come in and write the 'w' and i'll write the 'e' and that's all we need.
Ask me what i would do if i was rich. I can imagine houses by the sea, walk-in wardrobes of clothes aplenty, brand new hair and flawless skin thanks to expensive creams and mud masks, smelling of french soap layered with Chanel, two Pomeranians which i'll name them Brad and Depp. On cold nights you can join me for a barbecue in my sprawling backyard that starts mid afternoon and while you still nibble on leftover food and sip on leftover wine, i will even let you sing me a song while i count the stars... And that's where my imagination gets clipped. Just forget about pretending, i'm wretched at it. I have an acute sense of awareness, noticing details and behavior. But i'm not the most imaginative or colorful writer. I write from what i observe and reflected, not from what i imagine. I can see the house by the sea, but it fades away swiftly before i can taste the salt or hear the sweep of the waves.
There's no such thing as an eternal optimist; so stop thinking that i'm one. I need an artist. An artist to paint and tell me stories that end like all rainbows do in a pot of shimmering gold b'cos i don't always believe in them myself.
Labels: introspection
