I despise the question “do you believe in fate?” what’s the point of fate? When not everyone believes in its existence? Why doesn’t anyone ever ask question that will arouse responses of wisdom and raises brows? Ask me if I believe in foundation of our society; ask me if I care about the mental vigor of today’s generation. Ask me anything that won’t lead me to hypothetical situations and what if responses. Ask me about how I fell in love with words. I’ll tell you the truth.

I felt like I’m trapped in a classroom with negative thoughts in the seats around and I’m stuck in the back without any willingness to become educated by the demons teaching the class. I felt like a misguided soul without a real muse or motivation to escape. I wanted to think back to a time where it was easier and I sat at my desk alone with my thoughts and could compose masterpieces of galactic proportions. It felt like my mind was as heavy as a broadsword and I wasn’t strong enough to handle it just yet.

I try to predispose myself and try to figure out why I’m trapped where I am.

 Almost as if the words are treating me as a third wheel on our first date. I flirted with ideas on tip of my tongue and finger tips. I wanted to write about the dark thoughts and aggression floating around me, yet something inside of me felt the need to brush it off. Brush it away, and dip that brush into gentle colors and vivid images of the visions I’ve seen and the moments I’ve lived through. I lay into canvases with irrational strokes of an aggravated youth misguided by anguish and a mixture of negative thoughts.

Yet when you back away and see a bigger picture, and hopefully want to ask a bigger question.

Why do you write, why paint pictures with words when few people admire the art?


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