The fight for hope can be a painful one, especially when you’re fighting against large men armed with cleavers and your hope is a Picasso in the rain. This is not a metaphor, we were terrified.
My heart often hurts when I look at color. The brininess of the world can often be painful when you wish it to be dim. The pulsating purity of the sky it what reminds us that we are in fact alive.
The walls and structures that we have build to hold on to what we believe in crumble and fade, by that bright sky reminds us that the rest of the world is still there. I think that’s how I find myself here time and time again.
Surrounded but by the remnants of torched souls. Without the bright colors of the outside world, the faded colors of the past comfort me. There was once a time when every creator looked upon the world with a heavy heart, of that I am sure. They look at the hand dealt them by fate and decide that it was enough.
Maybe the sat down maybe the thought, but they all created. No matter the poverty, corruption or despaired they thought they could may the hard world seem a little more beautiful.
I like to think that there are people who would look at the bright sky the told him to live and there began to compose. That is just simply a theory.
It is a pure and simple fact that our walls will crumble around us. We will be disillusioned. Fact will turn to fiction. Surrounded by art of all kinds, I know that it has happened before.
We can make the world a prettier place. The ruins can turn into mosaics. The pain can turn to poetry. The fiction can create better worlds. The illusions can become thick with paint on canvas.
The world outside is bright, but the wolds others have put and pages, the sculptors others have made from clay, the colors other have put everywhere, tell it should be. The dimness it what we should ovided. Everything not as it should be but hiding from the light only makes it worse.
That’s what they tell me.