"Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone;"
- Solitude, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I made a promise to myself, while I was cursing and struggling to take down some old wallpaper. That I would paint that room the ugliest yellow I could find. To remind myself that life doesn't need to be perfect. My family doesn't understand my need to do things in the way I do, and I feel I constantly embarass them by being myself. I go to bars alone with a book to read. I pet the moss on trees. I walk so slowly and they describe it as if I was walking with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I don't think they'll ever understand, and I don't think I need to be understood. I'm simply ruled by strange passions and sentimentalism.
If you asked me to paint a fence, I'd paint birds. Two strokes of my thumb, tapping and running my fingers to make the wings. It'd be an abstract piece that I throw myself into with a dire need to connect to the earth. It'd be a process that takes weeks, and I'd change direction and do the rivers and gather stones and wire till it was a diorama. I can't help myself. It'd be beautiful that only few would appreciate.