As The Sky Turns From Constable To Turner.

...The magic word. Vulnerability. But I don't want to dwell upon it.

Is this a dreamers disease? 

The sky cracks open and I climb inside.
Into the flames that spill from a setting sun.
As though...it were the first I'd ever seen.

Forgetting how the air feels without buildings rising up around us
Protected.
We pass through, cradled by this coach. Protected still...

But I dream.
Dream of how it would feel.
As the sun glows red across the fields.
I watch the sky turn from Constable to Turner.

Suddenly needing desperately - dewy grass beneath my feet.
When was the last time?
When...When...When?...

I don't know.

I return, days later...from the trip, to myself.
Bare feet in grass (though not dewy but sun warm)
Trying to wrench out possibility.
Hah...I mind map...(desperately) key words that jump into my head,
Attempting to help them wander into something that could...
Lead to (fucking anything to be quite honest...) creation.
Does that sound wanky (in my head it sounds wanky)

"stick to photos...it's okay...."...
..."perhaps you're trying too hard to be more than you are...meant for?"...

Evil little motherfucker that lives inside my nervous system.
Needs to shut the fuck up.

But I cannot deny my lack of inspiration.
my lack of urge, need...want
Everything I need to say. I say.
I used to only see myself in drawings.
Like I was unreachable from myself any other way.
Now here I am, with only words.
Feeling somewhat like a flame, some kind of magic
Has gone out.
I'm left stabbing at its stone cold remnants,
Embers,...none.
I'm afraid, because I feel no heat.
See nothing to spark against.
Trying to bleed something out of every gallery visit.
Every beautiful walk.

But I've got nothing.

Do I need to content myself with that for now?
Do I need to fight, when I'm just so...
Goddamn tired of fighting.
For something I'm not convinced I'm meant for.

// I feel like calling this something melodramatic like
"death of an artist" :) //

" What if I never draw again?!!"

What if...( I already know the answer to this one. surprise surprise )
...what if, I am the only thing standing in my way?

Of course I fucking am.
Thank fuck I have a sense of humour for how much of a dick my wanky psyche /sub-conscious or what ever the fuck...can be.

But anyway.
Sun in my hair, toes in the grass.
Perhaps I should enjoy how empty I am.
Rest my poor little artless fingers...
For surely this will pass.
And if this is the worst...
How lucky I am.

I haven't a gut left to wrench.
Perhaps that's a lie.

..Perhaps that's the problem.

But lets not get started on my abject denial of vulnerability.

It would ruin the good mood.