Here’s to the day we feel alive, to the days when your blood has never been more intriguing and you want to see it running down your skin in all its bright, blistering red intensity. Here’s to the day people hear what your actually saying and not what you said, to the silent screams, to the overheard hushes, to the misinterpreted sorrowful eyes. Here’s to the day when everything you ever wanted to say to anyone, is finally heard.

What do you do when your biro writes dry and gouges the page instead of looping the words you want to appear in front of you? You throw it out. Why? Because people think things are replaceable.

Mistake. Right there.

Now I get that everyone ponders and exaggerates and deceives and……and….blank. What else exactly is it people do? From where I perch in my state of shaken fragility, there is such a rush. But for me its just colours merging and running. If you take a step back from the buzz, its nothing other than a pretty painting, a pretty face. Why is there necessity to make mountains out of mere molehills? Yes it was rhetorical, therefore it does not require validation with a mere pompous, idiotic, self righteous response from any one person so far up their own arse they see the world backwards. It is simply meant to provoke thought or stir emotion within an individual.

Idiosyncratic tendencies within me cause people to see me as a person of unique individuality. Lets not beat around the bush (In any meaning of that commonly misconstrued phrase please) but I am. If your not unique then what are you? A blank canvas screaming out to be torn apart and slashed and sutured with monotone schemes fused with vivid complements spilling out your own papery thin wrist. How many times can one person create such art with contemporary forms before ideas run dry like the biro. How many more walls have space for such vision?