This is a waste...It's a lie that you can ever survive with any level of satisfaction or joy by making artwork. It's a lie that there's any fortune nor future in such a venture.
There's suffering, a lot of suffering.
The suffering of seeing those around you, or worse yet, not seeing any of those around you, as they grow older, happier, and gather the fantasy they'd dreamed their lives to be.
You'll be alone. Your fantasy. With some paint and a canvas. Each brush cold to the touch. Crazed, with only the voices in your head.
And yet you claim to recreate "feeling". Only to find that you're just a hollow shell of a human being void of any and all true or genuine feelings...shallow...
Artistic integrity.
Those with it dig holes where others build lives.
Artist extraordinaire, renaissance man, and a true friend.
I've got a litre of Munchen Doppelbock waiting my good man. Would you believe I've actually been made a priest! Ha!!
Cheers ironrd, to the intellectuals!!
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All that I wanted were things I had before
All that I needed, I never needed more
All of my questions are answers to my sins
And all of my endings are waiting to begin
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Be Active!!
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________________________
. d r o p .
It stems from that damnable number three.
*shakes fist at the number three*
The beginning-middle-end paradigm, necessary for rhythm, and the initiation of juxapositional variety...yeah, the number three.
Yeah, the number two is number three's b*tch.
Now the number five, that just blows my mind. I would think about the number five, but I fear it would drive me insane with the complexity of it all. I dare not rise about five, such prime numbers are beyond my grasp. Like the number seven, another stupid prime number beyond my comprehension. It's like taking the numbers three and four, both plentiful and superior in essences, and getting this disfunctional red-headed stepchild of a number. What stupid greek invented the number seven? It's obviously an aesthetically challenged number.
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