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mood |
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apathetic |
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music |
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Bleeding Through |
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I dream in technicolor, and I speak in earnest.
My dreams emerge from mere seeds- scraps of images, remembrances of smells and sounds, tangible feelings and intangible emotions.
my writings- a few choice snippets of words strung together, dripping with the meaning only I can see.
The strings suggest other images; the scraps lead to paragraphs. Hand in hand, they spread, sparking any number of possibilities.
They do not escape me when the sun rises, but linger for days, gamboling through my mind, enticing me to play the game and piece the puzzle together.
From those dreams, a thousand thoughts solidify, and I play the artist, kneading them like clay until I form something recognizable- words, meanings, stories, linked to those thousand thoughts with a thousand more; images and words, each one building upon the other.
But who am I to kid.
I am no artist, my clay is nothing more than putty, and my sculpting reveals no artwork, just a lopsided mess, a child like rendition of something not quite understood.
To me, it makes no difference how it is understood.
I still dream in technicolor, and I always will. Those words and images will still flutter about in my sleep, and that is all I need.
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pastelxkisses's journal
