Graffiti

Art, the kind you create solely on imagination. The art in which drives your soul, and by the time you’re done you know that there is a piece of you integrated into the work. Even if the picture isn’t of you, you are a part of the image. It’s like reading between the lines in a story, but in a different way. Still, you sign your name, like copyright to your imagination.

A simple word in the English language turned into art. However, some would consider it destruction of property, thug work, rebellion, or something similar. All it really was was a single word sprayed illicitly on a wall. I know it was considered a punishable crime, but to me it didn’t matter much. I walked past it every day on my way to and from work at the coffee shop on Gilder Street. It was on the east side of town, but before you reached the sketchy neighborhoods. Some of the graffiti was done by gangs to mark their territory, but most was created by misunderstood teens trying to express themselves. At least that’s what I assumed. The graffiti was mesmerizing, especially to an aspiring artist like myself. However, when the scenery changes to such a degree that familiar becomes unfamiliar, safety can no longer be found, reality can be mistaken for a dream, the laws of physics seem to not exist during that moment, and every person is the perpetrator. Then you’re left standing there asking one question, “what becomes of me?”