Paint by Letters
Your words are your thoughts, and your thoughts aren’t always as straightforward as you’d like them to be.
We all wish for the power to convey with exactitude our personally attributed meaning to life’s endless spectacles, but that level of articulation remains just beyond our grasp. Our symbols and structures, our music and art, all serve as conduits for the colorful spectrum of emotions we experience, yet the ability to understand another person’s true reality is locked behind a door without a keyhole.
We walk around with screens for heads, projecting pixilated personas in desperate attempts to have the highest definition instead of the most interesting programming. The more three-dimensional our appearance, the more respected and elevated we become in the eyes of other talking boxes.
Look how realistic, how crisp. It’s almost as if he’s standing right in front of me…He must be doing well for himself.
Why the hesitation in allowing your signal to project itself in its rawest form?
Too much exposure? Risk of a short-circuit?
Where is the interest in truly honest broadcasting?
Whatever a person’s most applicable means of conveyable creation should be utilized to its fullest potential.
That is, what you create should be so much a part of you that the only thing standing in the way of a person’s eyes observing your very soul should be a single sheet of celestial paper. Practically see-through, but thin enough for your eyes to trace the smudgy shape of spirit that seems to stand behind that sliver.
Membrane of the messianic.
Penetrable only by those touched directly by the holy hands of fate and freedom. One, a deliverer of design and emerging properties, the other, holding the scissors that snip the very strings that kept our wings fluttering and our crowns connected to the clouds. Flying high we might have been, but tethered, nonetheless.
Art is about breaching that gap. About patching our tarred and untethered feathers and catching a personally procured plume of hot air. To rise, on our own, to the heights we once knew before we were cut from the cumulus.
In but one man’s opinion, the best sort of glue to use for any gravity-defying fusion comes from the unmistakable shimmering oil coating our shadow selves from feet to face. And what a black rainbow it is. It’s okay to stare, it mirrors your movements, after all. All you need to do is raise a single pointer and it will follow suit. Fingertips will touch in the same Chapel manner as ol’ Big Beard and his Funky Monkey. You will breathe new life into your own primal lungs as you tap into that long forgotten Dino tar and are once again able to connect to a stranger’s primordial predilections.
So, why are you not painting more? You don’t need acrylic stains on your brain any more than you need to buy the brush in the first place.
The empty air is a canvas. Vibration is color and your music is an evolving portrait of a single moment stretching itself over the Eternal Now.
The stage is set. Your feet are bristled. Dip your toes into that slick silhouette and float over the floorboards in the dancer’s natural ethereal manner; the closest thing to a truly angelic flutter that this world has to offer.
Perhaps, like me, fell your tree. Shave a nice slice. Sharpen a stick and dunk the toothpick. Drag your inky stabber across that dried scroll like you are mapping directions to your-Self. Your words are your only proof of an articulated existence, so take that same shadow branch and clean the squealin’ grease from your ears. Uncork the cranium and let that grey matter splatter down the blue-line ladder. You need to be heard, so remember to write loudly.
Each moment is blank, as blank as this page once was when I first looked upon its newborn tuchus, in fact. So, is it not up to us to paint each moment with our own unique brand of humanhood?
If we aren’t bound to honor our inherent skills by relaying insight from Beyond by whatever means most appropriate, then to who do we send the Thank You cards?
For what function were we forged if not the one atomized and reassembled at the Dawn of Disorder? If you can’t remember that far back, don’t worry about it. Destiny is a fun story, but the hero can always break the fourth wall. If life is a blank canvas, then we live in a Build-A-Brush Workshop. Pick a color and let the bristle whistle in any manner you deem worthy.
Just paint something, in some way, using whatever you have at your disposal. Even if that entails etching your existential exodus onto the insides of your eyelids to be seen by you alone and relayed only to those close enough to you to deserve true soul exposure and an honest conversation. It’s more common than you think, but please know that there are different and sometimes better ways of communicating a feeling. Each a universe, each unique.
You understand that, don’t you?
You must know what you’re capable of by now, you just must.
If you don’t though, it’s okay.
Honestly?
Neither do I.
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.
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