The dead ask too much of us, I cannot do it!

Cassandra, "Trojan Women"

You know the way you feel when you stumble into a thing, a single solitary thing, a fictional thing, a thing so true and so absolutely amazing you have. no. words? You just want to walk home in silence and you can't feel the cold biting at your toes or the conversation loping along next to you and prodding your clouded head every once in awhile because your mind is still swimming in the sensory and emotional overload you were just ripped through eyes wide and mouth agape and heart beating fast to the quickening beat of the silence between each hanging echoing ancient word now rolling around heavy and weighted between your ears.

Everything I have seen lately has reinforced this innermost desire, this need to be a part of this process, to hold a portion of this experience within the deepest part of my artistic soul and call it my own.

I thought I could live just off of writing. I thought I could settle for a lifetime of watching and appreciating and describing, living vicariously through my own prose dancing around in my head... but I can't. I just can't. I want to do this so bad it hurts inside. I can feel the pressure, the want, pushing up against my ribs and constricting my lungs and I can't breathe but that's okay because I'm holding my breath anyway because the show is just so damn good.

I have to go sit in silent pensive contemplation for awhile now. See you on the other side of the canvas.

ink :: graphite