Leaves

I'm painting a scene of a shower of winter leaves on this night, December 10. There is no chilly breeze or frothy mist, and all is clear ahead. And here I am, kneeled under the crown of a great oak tree. Leaves of all pastel forms are brushing past my face, and I know this face, it is my my face. The sky is miserably overcast, but it does not rain. Then scores of withered leaves are lifted off the dry ground, and up they go, swirling in a pool of melancholic tears. Those tears are mine.

Dreams

They're like little jigsaw puzzles that never seem quite right. And all fantasy you never thought possible lives, in this very realm of dreams. We see distorted and contorted shapes of all sorts, and our simple mind attempts to fit that very unimaginable picture into a frame... and we get more absurb conclusions. Dreams... they are the very stuff dreamers dream about... In dreams we can fly to the moon on flying fishes, we can swim to the ocean depths on bicycles. We can vision liquids ablaze with the hue of blue flowing up the glacial streams... We can imagine ourselves trekking through the ice and frost of the poles... We can do everything. Now wouldn't it be nice to be able to do the same in real life?

So I guess, we have to live like dreamers... and dream. So if we dream, we will be able to see the things we want to see. It will be a swirl of feverish colours, drawn together by a twisting force... then bursting into all of it's glorious splendour, of energetic exuberance, then finally fading away into an echo that lasts forever.

Deliberate Desires

I had painted a tiny space for which I could exist in. It was a very pretty little room, the ceiling the colour of the cosmos, and the walls, the colour of the rainbow. Butterflies flew about like specks of diamonds in the sky, and flowers glowed, blooming with the splendour of all that was. This very living space, this area - it was genuinely perfect. It was more than just flawless... it was perfectly flawless. I could just reach out and touch the ethereal clouds of heaven that was suspended in the air above, and sing the praises of the romantic rain.

It was so perfect.

Too perfect.

And so I tored down the walls and the door and floor, and wrecked the landscape, brutally, and left it bleeding tears of innocent fury... It was a devastated world... and ordered mayhem just shrouded the once perfect world, transforming it into a ruthless dystopia. And I saw the pastures that laid beyond the confines I had been existing in all along. And the grass - they stretched for miles and miles at glance, a picture so seamlessly put together by a masterful artist, more so than me.

And then I knew I had conceived a deliberate world just to deceive myself with.

Roses

Those lovely petals, like lips screaming for gentle attention, the way they put a smile on a girl's lovely face, and the way they absolutely make flowers the most beautiful thing in the world - don't you you find roses oh so lovely? They're seductively charming, and carry with them a intense persona that is absolutely unmatched by any other object in the material world. Their entirety, their being even reaches out beyond what is concrete, for they extend to the astral planes - they represent a silent beauty that is almost ethereal. Like streaks of snow they fall upon every man like nothing else does, they touch and simply take your soul away. So just let your being feel itself drifting in the romantic rain of petals, and let those lovely roses carry your burdened body, and take you to eternal serenity.