Every day, riddled with a deep consciousness of being but knowing the abnormality in the way I dare, life may not last. “Normal” living has me confined. There is more to our lives than the average joe style. Without the hope of something more significant, beyond one perspective, I fear there is little reason to continue.
Inside is where power flows, leaking from my fingers. The pulse flowing paint across a canvas, the ink staining the white sheet of paper. The perspective here is shared, vulnerable as the self who set free a secret kept from the judgment wars.
What else is there, beyond materials that burn in a fire, that lasts longer than decomposing shells? Art, much like a warrior legacy, can continue in immortality if its content is pure-hearted with an intent to turn the world as we know it into better.
