Confessions.

Heavy hues of evening
sinking to the dusty sidewalk.
The dry taste of chalk
drenching the air.
Cooled cobbled concrete
rippled with crushed color.
Loose strands of hair
swaying with absorption.
Fingertips rubbed raw
lightly pressing the ground.
Soft whispers of strangers
observing the artists toil.
Darkened shadows
falling beneath dirtied knees.
Heavy hues of evening
blanketing the dusty sidewalk.



Sometimes I miss who I was. Who I thought I might be. Who I still am is smothered by reality.
My hands often yearn to create but, time or lack thereof, often steals such intentions from my grasp.
Sometimes I miss the immersion. The forgetting. The portraying. The capturing of pure, simplistic beauty.
My mind screams for release from logic, but rationale quiets the protests.
Sometimes I miss the detachment. The reviving. The technique. The releasing of tainted, complex beauty.
But to put it bluntly, I miss art.
Sometimes I want it back.

"Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one."
-Stella Adler

"Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life."
-Pablo Picasso