Is It Possible That All This Magic Went Unnoticed?
Happy Holidays; as said before. I hope everyone's day went better than planned - smooth sailing and the makings of great memories. That's not where I want to take this rambling of thoughts at all though - I'm not trying to disregard the present Christmastime feeling or anything, I just want to get out what's firing off in my head. That is just not where I want to take this at all.
I'm sitting here looking at frozen caricatures of so many people I grew up with - or grew into the person I am now - and am writing the next chapters in their life in my head. Some novel of their future - planned out like a diagram of acts and scenes in my mind. I see the people I used to know extremely well within their new, cinematic lives - real estate agents, housewives, lawyers, famous Broadway actresses, teachers - some of them unhappy, some of them content. I can see them living by their religions - by their ideas of 'fate' - by the sideways breath of the wind. It's a jumbling puzzle of a portrait unfinished; each piece the missing color to completing a vision of wonderment.
I examine the timeline of my twising friendships - seeing how people have moved away or grown to hate me or a million and one other things that could possibly denote 'change'. I know that most of the portrait of me left for everyone to fill in with their own brushes is strange and unfamiliar. The person I am described as - this person I supposed 'am' or 'were' - is foreign and sometimes a little too much to bear. This person treats people in ways I didn't even know could be considered. This person thinks in ways that would make any lunatic or deranged mind look like a peaceful meadow of serenity. This is not who I ever was; how could people even see that? Even through shadows and out of the corners of their eye?
What do I see through the letterboxing of my waking life? What exists for interpretation behind those black bars? Is it some hidden subtitle - explaining to everyone exactly what to see and what to think? I miss everyone thinking based off the face value of things - learning to get to know someone by asking questions and giving greetings, not by listening to endless storytelling or gossip. I cannot even begin to say I know who these people are - these very familiar faces - anymore now than I could any stranger on the streets of Denver. I wish them all the best.
I'm sitting here looking at frozen caricatures of so many people I grew up with - or grew into the person I am now - and am writing the next chapters in their life in my head. Some novel of their future - planned out like a diagram of acts and scenes in my mind. I see the people I used to know extremely well within their new, cinematic lives - real estate agents, housewives, lawyers, famous Broadway actresses, teachers - some of them unhappy, some of them content. I can see them living by their religions - by their ideas of 'fate' - by the sideways breath of the wind. It's a jumbling puzzle of a portrait unfinished; each piece the missing color to completing a vision of wonderment.
I examine the timeline of my twising friendships - seeing how people have moved away or grown to hate me or a million and one other things that could possibly denote 'change'. I know that most of the portrait of me left for everyone to fill in with their own brushes is strange and unfamiliar. The person I am described as - this person I supposed 'am' or 'were' - is foreign and sometimes a little too much to bear. This person treats people in ways I didn't even know could be considered. This person thinks in ways that would make any lunatic or deranged mind look like a peaceful meadow of serenity. This is not who I ever was; how could people even see that? Even through shadows and out of the corners of their eye?
What do I see through the letterboxing of my waking life? What exists for interpretation behind those black bars? Is it some hidden subtitle - explaining to everyone exactly what to see and what to think? I miss everyone thinking based off the face value of things - learning to get to know someone by asking questions and giving greetings, not by listening to endless storytelling or gossip. I cannot even begin to say I know who these people are - these very familiar faces - anymore now than I could any stranger on the streets of Denver. I wish them all the best.
"I wish I could transform my days into paint-by-number portraits
A display of simple cut and paste; Creativity without real taste
So life, like art, is just a waste; But yet we still wake up each day...
The bedroom's fresh with summer paint; a palette left to gather dust
The smell makes dreams like cheap Monet
A copy made without a frame; But it was worth is when we sang...
'A vision true will make us saved!'
And we breathe in deep vermillion, and we stain our days with gold
And the blacks and whites are chipping
We'll spend our forest green to forget what we've really lost
Fingerprints of red and blue; We taste the oils when we kiss
A cocktail made of me and you; Where everything we touch we lose
But at least I have your body still...
You recognize this poison, don't you?
Our love's unfinished canvas, and the rent's far overdue
And breathing isn't living
The songs don't sell, so I'll give them truth in a different hue."
So life, like art, is just a waste; But yet we still wake up each day...
The bedroom's fresh with summer paint; a palette left to gather dust
The smell makes dreams like cheap Monet
A copy made without a frame; But it was worth is when we sang...
'A vision true will make us saved!'
And we breathe in deep vermillion, and we stain our days with gold
And the blacks and whites are chipping
We'll spend our forest green to forget what we've really lost
Fingerprints of red and blue; We taste the oils when we kiss
A cocktail made of me and you; Where everything we touch we lose
But at least I have your body still...
You recognize this poison, don't you?
Our love's unfinished canvas, and the rent's far overdue
And breathing isn't living
The songs don't sell, so I'll give them truth in a different hue."
- Borderline Angelic "Starving Artist"
Some faces I do not want to have to end the story in the middle of a sentence. Some certain people's smiles make it worth it to keep wondering. A simple keyhole into certain people's lives makes it worth it to keep writing my mental novels. I still have some hope that the story won't ever reach the last page. It keeps me close to them even though I'm now so far away. There are so many people that I want to see again - if just, for any reason, to sketch their new lines and color their hidden backgrounds.
Those lyrics are gorgeous. I'm once more envious of your ability with words tonight.
I would be envious, but you see, I am the better person when it comes to writing things. He should envy me.
(I'm a total fucking liar)