His passion is trapped in a world of full of fast cars. Everyone elses seem so polished and new, talented and confident. unsatisfied his hazy vision reflects a car that barely moves and the scratches from his past ware deep into his 18 year old paint. Get it out! he screams don't feel these things! but words are not his gift. No his imagination is his escape. He looks at the sky and doesn't see clouds more like dancing whirl winds of painted feathery mist. He allows his mind to relax letting his mind leak out from the pen in his hand. It touches the paper like fire uniting with its long lost gasoline, and it goes and it goes. Round up and down over and out in and back. Jagged and angry and like that its relaxed. He thinks no thoughts that make sense to most as he bleeds his feelings like these emotions are his only hope. A hope at being normal and more like the rest maybe then they would see he is worth their time and not their protest. No mistakes he chants in his head for these very words are his personal bible and every direction the pen goes is exactly where it is supposed to be and when it begins that's is the only possible answer to where these thoughts have been. Every line and sway or flicker of ink, every smudge and swirl is exactly as his mind unknowingly intends the thought to end. and as the pen moves he is in his own universe seeing of black and blood red, sepia tones. fusia and far spaces, stars and flames. Clouds and evil. Eagles and shadows. Sleepless nights and lonely days, happiness living amongst pain. Thoughts so far out the great Dr. Sues could not began to describe. The desires he hides deep in his brain, letting only the pen breathe into the paper the secrets of his minds foreign thoughts, how they began and where they will end.
- For my creative brother.