SUN SETTING

xvi.

A time where your imagination paints poetry into the sky, sketching the world with ruinous words and sun lit tragedies. an era where bleeding galaxies onto paper was considered godlike, a mastery forgotten as time tick! tocked! past. what a shame that numbers ran over the carefree minds of imaginative youth, whispering cruel fates of disappointment and not-good-enough's.
R est does not lie in your mind, sweet child of bleeding colours. it lies awake, reading with half-finished plots and thoughts, whirring like a machine with no sense of numbers and codes, binary having no meaning in this forgotten world where the old arts rule as kings and queens. no, this world leaks crayons of colour and twenty-six words that could write the world with armoured passion, impenetrable to the quick witted sciences and pounding mathematics.
T here, do you see it? the world above, painted with the delicacy of dancing figures who watch the proud stage with captivated eyes, imprisoned by the wide arcs and pronounced words that fly from the practiced lips of an actor? even gods watch, utterly transfixed by the tiny smirks and loud grins that twinkle across the audience, and how could they not? we trailed our hands down the sky, sifted the earth through our fingers, and drew our eyes across the universe, seeing all and seizing the gold and silver and bronze and stitching an era of art across it.

— art shaped the world, can it not again?