Paint

The world spins on my palm. I faze in and out of it, and my thinking becomes too surreal for even myself to fathom. I am, and am not. I exist, then I don’t. At 24, I always wondered if I’d have my own place. No, I wishfully believed I would. Neglecting the reality of the economy and my legal status. I thought everything would fix itself. It’s hard to balance the thoughts of an infinite universe, with the limited implications of who you are at the moment in time in which you exist. It’s hard to be you, and still want to be someone else, someone better. I always wondered if I was wrong for living in such an elusive future for so long. I dreamt, as if my dreaming had merit. As if it were the merit. Dreaming is not the ticket to having the life you want, especially if the life you want doesn’t quite exist. Dreaming is a tool, and it can help you forge your plans, but it can never be enough. Disgracefully, for many people in my socio-political situation, dreaming is quite literally most of everything that I have. I use my dreams to build upon my already existing reality, and I see myself as much more special than I actually am. Sometimes I think that this is good for my self-esteem. Sometimes it feels like it’s to my detriment. I have not tried enough to fail enough to know myself enough, but I have failed to try enough, and that can tell some of the worst things about you. When you are dreaming you want to believe that you are capable of your wildest dreams. In a way you are, it’s just that the world doesn’t depend on you. When you are young, you dream like an architect. You get older, and start dreaming like a painter. I’ve reached 24, and I want to be a graffiti artist. Not the generic artists that tag their artist names on buildings that aren’t there in the same font I can find on my google docs. I mean I want to paint weirdly, on top of things, on the side. I want to add to the life I’m living. Small drops of color as I pass by. I might paint a flower. I might paint a mural. It all depends on the time I have. But what’s important is that I try to paint, as much, as often as possible. I want my life to mean something more. A smidge. A moment. Effort. In every moment of my life that I feel that I am drowning, may I not sink in one scene, May it take various. May I die moving. May I die like the wind. May the fickle drops of paint sit on top of me like moments of emotions waiting to burst. And may they burst.