Today I am writing just to write. Pressing my labored fingers to the corresponding keys to form words, which in turn echo my thoughts. But my thoughts are at a whisper. Letting my fingers lead the way, seemingly in circles. No story, no tale to tell.
Dry is the well I dip my wishes and dreams that produce my serenade of poetry I sing to the world. That’s what I am, isn't it. A silent vocalist, unseen by peers, cheered by strangers. What an interesting idea. Only slightly depressing but mostly I remain mildly attentive at the idea. As I do with any Idea.
Except love. Love I dream in color and music. How grandiose and beautiful my hopes are. How I yearn to be apart of that phenomenon. Another odd Idea for someone with an almost unhealthy fear of rejection. I am so split within my ideas. If you were in my head you'd think me mad. Truly I wouldn't blame you.
I call it my artist's curse. Two plus two doesn’t always equal four. In my head it's more likely to equal blue. My brain seems to resemble one giant Paint by Numbers. Self doubt and paranoia seem to come with the territory.  But I manage to convince myself I’m worth it.
Sometimes even that I’m pretty, but just as with my work the little mistakes are unsympathetic and glaring defects in which I have had to ignore or try to fix. Again as with my work the defects are most noticeable when with other people.
I am smart enough to know I am different but not proficient enough to filter my brain in to a socially acceptable state of inanity or immaturity as expected of and by people my age. That skill has yet to be learned. Only on occasion do I present the appearance of ordinary.
That however doesn’t mean I do not fade in to the scenery as if I were not but an everyday accord, for that I have perfected. Unknowingly, I shied away from the spotlight only to pick a career where millions grasp for a tiny piece of remembrance. Probably hurting my chances more than any other could.  Doubt riddles my bones and I fear it is too late to change. So again I lie to my self. Reassuring affirmations that People never really believe, especially the reflection in the mirror.
The cruelest of all critics. A lie smattered across their face. Wanting desperately to wipe it off. Only to have it stain a crooked smile you put on for the interested. Torn between love and hate as we all are. Stuck in a nauseating middle to which we cannot escape.
That is how hope is born, using compliments and smiles to build them up higher until the heavens themselves seem to be smiling down upon them. An endless cycle of hope and desperation which we build the very foundation of human life upon. Chaotic magnificence and controlled devastation sinking down into the very fabric of nature it’s self. Life seems to be an art all it’s self, And sometimes I wonder if I am just scrutinizing it with my art, only scratching the surface of something greater.