I enjoy escapism. Those moments where I don't feel anything from reality. Instead I'm floating gently in my own world of merriment and wonder.
But in the past week there came a moment where a heavy collision of reality and imagination happened. I'm not quite sure what to make of it yet.
I'm shocked. I'm shocked and the feeling radiates to my core. It's hard to believe that I never realized that surprises never stop coming--whether good or bad.
You hurt me a lot. And you know why it hurt even more? Because you said you wouldn't do anything to hurt me so much again. You asked why I can't get over it. What is wrong with you? Well, it's because this is reality.
To quote Stars, "I'm not sorry it's over. I'm not sorry there's nothing to say." It's early, but I have gotten good out of this already. My sketchbook is over flowing with newly started drawings. I have idea upon idea slowly stacking up like wooden building blocks, anticipating the moment I acquire canvases. My involvement in learning the art of photography...
I know what I like to do now. I've found a part of me that I didn't have before. What about it? I didn't need a counterpart of me to do it. I needed to lose the counterpart to do it.
Now, what would you say to me if you knew this to be the truth? If you saw what my hand and pencil created, what my hand and brush created, should you say anymore? If you knew that within each stroke and mark was a painful, salty tear brought upon by a broken, bleeding heart--could you even speak?
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