All I wanted
Was a house on a hill
From all the people
Who would claw up
All my foundations
Divide my loyalties
Sketching at night on my tablet is a little habit now and then I look and think of words to go with it, and give a bit of a story, imagining a bigger story that could be made around the bit of a poem.
I think the hardest part about writing and art is the letting others see it and think they know what you are thinking. It’s not really like that. I can right a sad poem and not be sad. I can be sad and draw a pretty scene. I can right about trauma without being traumatized.
But people who aren’t creatives, who don’t create art or poems or stories, don’t know how to imagine past their own experiences to create things and experiences, think works come from experience.
But someone who has suffered a paper cut can imagine getting their heart broken. I’ve suspected some very shallow people can create seemingly passionate art because they understand the mechanics.
So mistaking the art as the artist isn’t the way to go.
Art is building an alternative reality OR maybe it is putting out cues to how to build an alternative reality for others.
Even those that seek realism, who want true reflections, are plagued by the distortions of their imaginations.