I will walk through the doors carrying my passion. I will wear my passion on my sleeve and show them that this is what I am; this is I... until I get what I want. I am an artist. I was given these eyes, these hands, by a deep lineage of artistry, and I will show to them, my world, my creative process whether they wish to see, or not. I'll have them fond me by the end, I’ll stand me out. As for true companionship, I know what does and does not define. As I still seek those whom I resonate with, which time has revealed that I have had great discourse in doing so, the reality that I am so different from all no longer nauseates me. Excuse me while I text, No, talk to me damnit.
During the time I adored pretending their pseudo-intellectualism encompassed me, I conserved just enough vigor to buy a new diversion, while by unexpected hot flashes like menopause I became conscious that we don’t understand each other, really, them and I. In the end, I was the Indian and them, they were always the American cowboy, the Spanish fleet... as we called ourselves companions, brothers in arms; yet all only ever there to their convenience. I know what does and does not define, and well, what the fuck about me? What about you, artist? I only ask because they do not understand, any of them. They are not so hard to read; did I mention I am fluent in body language? And for when these “companions” disappear for some time much to their convenience, I should also mention I comprehend silence well, too… and that when I tell them, it was nice hearing from them after so long, I am halfway lying to our selves. I am not so sorry, but I cannot do this, either; and if you ever pondered to where enmity was derived from…
… Apathy was momentary: after a lukewarm summer, distant autumn into sleeping winter, I stir. My awakening. Into November, I rise, ready to knock these bastards dead. Ciao.
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