If it were as easy as I imply. To unzip my mind and let you in. Or spill it out, ready-formed, onto a page. To coax you over, just a little closer. To kiss you, press my lips to your eyes and deliver these images in their detail and beauty. Because I am inadequate in this. It will never be enough. I cannot paint, I cannot sculpt, I cannot draw, I cannot create music. I can write. A bit. I know words, I can string them together. That’s all I have. And it never hurts as much as when I am d e s p e r a t e to show you what I have trying to burst from my skull. When I’m speaking and my words start tripping over themselves in the mass exodus diving off my tongue. I want to paint for you with words, but I have a hard time with function/form. I want you to understand the beauty, the agony, the joy, but it seems so superfluous sometimes. Does it serve a purpose? Does art have to serve a purpose? Getting a little big in the britches there, considering anything you do to be art. I cannot describe it well enough. I have moments that occur to me, scenes that are born into my head that scream until they’re exorcised. But it is never enough. Nothing is ever enough.
The reason why is that it doesn’t matter to anyone but me. That’s why I do it. Because I can’t live with these moments screaming in my head with no release. So here it is. In its inadequacy, here are the words I wish it was as easy as unzipping to show you.