25 February 2011

Call Me When You Get This

If I were to pull off a heist, I'd rob an antique store. If I were to commit murder, I'd slay misunderstanding. If I were to write an autobiography, I'd scrawl it on the walls of a city. If I were to paint a masterpiece, I'd do it with my fingers. If I were to compose a symphony, it would be of wind and silence.

I'd like to walk on my hands so I could see the world from a different point of view. I code my library by shade of meaning. I'm not really interested in competition and I'm unconcerned with winning, but I'd fight you for the memory of it all.

I'll always blame you for growing me up. I abhor vacation time and I detest the work week. Empty walls are empty canvas that need to be covered in otherness. Paint by celcius or whatever you understand it to mean. I disapprove of boredom, it haunts my daytimes.

Fresh as the toothpaste in my drawer. Where are the leaves when you need them? I watch old films and read books that you can't see the title of. I have nothing at all to elaborate upon verbally, so I hope you get my meaning. I sent it to you by post.
The cup is French with Italian innards. I boil my water in a pot, unsure of where it might come from otherwise. Oil pastels are my gloves. Seemingly impossible to remove. I don't appear to have anything to say. But I'll shout silence from this soap box. I eat my own art, the calories few and far between.

I'll scribble on the back of someone elses photograph, making it mine. Demanding truth from the static. The radio plays only that which radiates from it's little speakers. I'm jumping on the ceiling trying to get to my bed. Sparatic ecstatic noise. Fifteen walls, one door, two windows, one curtain.

I've managed an entire post without writing a word. And yet I'm saying exactly what I mean. Most of all I'd like you to understand something. I'm just not sure what it is. But then, I don't suppose anyone is - sure, I mean. Or, maybe, somewhere, someone is.

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