I wonder when I will stop dreaming. I think I’ve got it. I have it. Now.
I love the appearance of compounding sentences. They read like a mantra. Very Soothing. Sweet.
I wish that this blasted text box was created with the same width as my blog. So as to preserve the formatting I carefully pay attention to. It’s murder on poetry. Everything askew.
I’ve always been a man for aesthetics. Someone thought me to be a talented young artist once. The best in my class. The teacher thought I really had it and offered to teach me privately. He was a nice old man. The whitest white mustache. I heard he died. Six years ago I guess. Time flies. I think I had it in my head that it was all luck though. That I was a fraud, and he would find me out. I was scared I would loose my talent. Bloody fool. It was just natural to me… it just made sense, didn’t seam like there was anything special to me at all. I was the only person in class who drew with perspective… meaning I drew exactly what I saw, not what I thought was there. We did drawings in class, of real objects… I remember I drew a stuffed penguin. I took it very seriously then, I would ask people to switch seats with me so I could get the perspective that showed the most depth. I was in fourth grade. I got scared and then I quit. I didn’t draw realism again for eight years.
I don’t think I’ve thought about that in a long time. Let alone told anyone that story. Years… many years. It’s funny. I didn’t even think about that when I started drawing again. Not even once. Not until this moment.
My brother motivated me to become an artist and a writer. I respected him so greatly. He was always the brilliant son, I always knew he was brilliant. He’s in Tijuana now, he called me. Why the fuck can’t brilliant people just be brilliant. Why can’t they just shower the world with there talent. Why do brilliant people have to get caught up in poisoning themselves, and second guessing themselves and driving themselves insane. Why can’t brilliant people just be brilliant instead of killing themselves slowly so they can be just another dumb sheep caught up in lies superstition.
Perhaps there is no goal I need to set for myself. I sorta always hated the future. I think I’ll just be brilliant, and not being afraid of choosing where or how I’m brilliant. Just let myself be carried from one thing to the next. I just want it to be natural. Organic. To bad I don’t have the money for it. Got to choose. Got to choose.
I miss my mom. I’m going to see her soon. I think she misses me.
She use to say to me, “Michael your the light of my life.”