"the sky was the color of breakfast"
There is the material world that we all live in and see and feel, and then there is another place. It's less tangible to me at this point but it is just as real. I feel it in the air on the uppermost layer of my skin. It pushes on my consciousness at odd times, when my thoughts are firmly here and now but are beguiled away by another force. It is a world of images and colors, hopes, dreams, stories and genius. Trying to describe it feels like the taste of a word that your tongue tries to form but can quite reach or remember.
Every day I build it, break it, change it. Some people can't see this world. They're not bad people but I ache for them. For what they unwittingly miss out on. For how blind they are to the ephemeral reality around them.
I will create a place for them. And give them what their eyes cannot see.
Picking up a paint brush, something magical happens. Not on the canvas. The change occurs inside of me as I hold one implement of creation. Right now it is just a sketched a scene in water across the canvas but I saw so much more.