2002-09-07 - 11:23 p.m.
It is a tragedy that life and souls are not portraits to be seen and to be had. It is a tragedy that lives peter out, never having had the artistic critique or the viewer's pleasure of the patchwork smudges that experiences stain into a tapestry on the thin veil of the soul. The lives of men and women whom in their lifetimes touch gods and demons and each other, each festering in a cesspool of tragedy, comedy and irony, blighting the very threads that keep life from unbecoming. Lives of bullets and dust and air. Lives that strive to see and are a pain to bare. Lives that transcend joy and bite the heel of God. Lives of blue, lives of gold, lives of crimson. Centuries of lives, centuries of stories, canvases and palettes, scapes of sky and mud and men, drawn, redrawn, faded and erased forever. Decades of war, decades of pasture, decades of strife. Generations of babies in their mothers' arms, generations of women in suits, generations of lives in infirmary. The gray of death, disease and decay, the red of birth and growth and splendor. Serendipidous occasions, moments of happenstance, and instances of being, each with their own hue. Chances of being and not being. A skew in the rue of life made by a whim decision, forever altering the path that was paved by fate. Each chance of life lost and regained and lost again, every second as death approaches. And then the final beginning. Its arrival the awakening of souls to the mete of life. The moment of true realization of the color of the veil. The moment of merit and the moment of resignation. Dark, and yet full of light. Shadows and stars on a new canvas. And as the artist retires, his works will never be sold, nor valued, nor seen. A lifetime of creating, shadowing and highlighting, a lifetime of editing, all to be examined and discarded in the moment before the artist resigns.
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