Falling Up

blank

Like a blank sheet of paper. Everything starts like that.

This started like that.

I sat down to relieve my mind of thoughts plaguing my head like a disease and stared at this blank page trying to decipher what to decorate it with. Thoughts ran across my mind like a foot race until I simply put it down, completley blank and I wondered what was the point in filling it?

Why decorate a page with words that tried to paint a picture, when pictures arent made of words? Why let my fingers fly across the keyboard like an angry artist until I was satisfied with the picture I had painted?

Why could I not publish it, without words?

Because that's not how it works.

My words are colors. Every one of them, a different shade of a vibrant rainbow of an extended vocabulary. My words are a gateway for someone like me, who cant paint. I cant pick up a paintbrush and make a picture that you can interpret my thoughts and conflicts by. I cant make an image that shows what im dealing with.

I am not an artist.

I cannot turn a canvas into a piece of art, no matter how many comparisons I make with art. I cant simply pick up a brush and show you how I feel.

I am described through thousands of words.

Words that you have to pick through to find what you're looking for. Words you have to interpret yourself, but the problem with that is, I probably didnt write it that way interpret it.

Thats the problem with writing, isnt it? I wrote about spaghetti noodles, but it had a bigger meaning to me. But you may have taken it for just a dinner suggestion.