Art

This is a response to a post by The Wizardress, which was at first a comment, but then it got too long and I figured it should be a post. In order to understand my post, you're probably going to have to read hers.

_________________________________________________________

Art becomes shared and appreciated when people can relate to it - which I think is what you just said. I like art more than nature, and I guess we're talking about human made art because I dont understand why nature cant be art. even if it happened without any prompting, it still causes emotion for people and people see beauty and emotion in it, as they might a painting or sculpture, etc. Those two aspects FOR ME, define art.

And what's wrong with seeing multiple ways to get inside someone's mind? Tying into what i said at the beginning, relating to people makes people feel better, as does the creation itself. I think that art that does not convey emotion in a way that people can read it, is just one-ended art. Because if it has ANY emotional value, the artist can feel it and use it. That's much different than tissues.

Wall

Like staring at the outside wall

Of my own world

Last time I was here I was inside

Now staring at red-brown bricks

I hear the sounds of the club from within

The bass like a heartbeat

Drums are like a voice

Heard faintly

Whispering

A reversed setting to dwell upon

An awkward vacant room

But that story is beyond us now

Winter draws to an end

Didn't want to see time go

Tried to stop from

Slipping away

Slowly I allow nature to take it's course

Promise I'll forget one day

Paths

I somehow realized, that we are each individuals, with personal stories that are going on right now, even when I'm not around them. I only come into contact with their stories when my own path crosses theirs. But when I walk away, every one else's story keeps going. And even those who you are close to, your friends, are entirely different beings than yourself. Sometimes, I lose the sense of who people really are, and start to fill in things about them, which are pretty much fictional and based on my own impressions. So I have to wake up and realize how far apart I am from everyone. You can't live in anyone's head. And misunderstandings/miscommunication alone can create that huge distance. Once accepting the fact that we are entirely different and independant, when stories do come to interact and meet, it seems like a miracle. That people that could be running around on entirely different paths of life, somehow find each other for split seconds in time, and let their stories touch.

Fragile

Yall remember this. But I was rereading it, and decided it was the right time to post it here. (originally written December 8, 2009, in math. This was not my assignment.)

______________________________________________________

Run away and hide

Away from world order

Winter known to bring

Worst of luck

Say something wrong

Do something reckless

Leaving winter to blame

Looking to next month

Wishing for next year

If there is no way to return from which you came

In my past I fear

This season of detatchment

Still

Too fragile for winter winds

Could you get lost in winter?

Lose true meaning

Succumb to foggy memories

Only to rise again

And may springtime bring us peace

Fluidity and understanding

But when November clouds taunt -

Too fragile for winter winds.

Numb

The feeling is numb. The feeling where feeling is lost. Having so many thoughts waiting to be processed, but having the inability to do such is drowning. And I can't breathe because I don't want to hurt. How backwards would it be to say I was happier before? This severely disrupted the healing process, and I swore I wouldn't regret it. Now I am sitting, waiting for the air to come through my lungs, for the smile to come to my face and for the goosebumps to come when I realize that it's time to make the decision. Who knew that saying what was in your head could be so difficult? Especially when what is in your mind is contradictory to what it's supposed to be. To tell the truth, I'm being harshly contemplative and on the edge of disorder because... because I'm afraid. I hate putting part of me outside of myself - it's too dangerous. While I know what's coming, I don't want to wait for it. I don't even have to. Because they are already living, they were living hours ago when they were being born in the darkness. But what is It? It is mistakes, It is disappointment, It is knowledge, It is silence, acceptance, It is... It is embracing the end. It is wanting a cleaner definition so that this messy scar doesn't have to sit all night. If nothing went wrong, then why do I feel so sick already? I can feel it in my bones, and last time I felt it, I was right. I. was. dead. right. But as always, I will go to sleep tonight, and wake up tomorrow morning and truth will not have escaped my grasp. There is nothing worse than waking up in the morning feeling like the day has already been ruined, I promise you. Have a good one.

The Sky is Maroon

My dearest Sam posted on her blog a statement about truth. I would just like to respond to that.

Truth exists. It's just not truth for everyone. Everyone has their own personal truth, and it is truth, it's just that you can never tell the whole truth to anyone but yourself. And even then, we have a tendency to lie to ourselves. And that is truth. Funny to think of it that way, being told 'tell the truth' and them expecting to hear an answer. So if you saw the sky as being maroon, and you said "The sky is maroon" then that would be the truth. Your truth. It just so happens that we all identify the color of the sky to be a shade of blue. Everything emerges from perspective, and truth is part of that everything. Next time someone asks you for the truth, ask: "Your truth, or mine?"