Lumus
Posts: 5968
Joined: 9/16/2007 Status: offline
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*subjects e01n to poetry...if you care to call it that* White…pure, holy, virginal; endless and unyielding, a prison of pristine sterility swallowed in light until everything else is washed away; the senses break, all colour embraced, erased, savaged and broken down… only white survives. A perfect, tormenting bliss Violent to the imperfect mind that relates instead to pain, and the steady crushing grief of its imperfect surroundings which are comforting, familiar: stagnant, stale tastes; cloying scents; raw, dull aches; mechanical hums, clicks, beeps; and reflections – especially of itself. Reality hates perfection. An artist is a cleverly disguised god who is confronted with white and stains it, maims and pollutes it with slashes of black, a regurgitation of emotions, colour, and morbid thoughts so divine that all others stop and stare; they gaze upon the artist's successful rape of the white, and they judge – applaud, despise. Notice. Art is not beauty. It destroys beauty, and we welcome its hammering blow. Wrote this a while ago while getting frustrated at staring at an empty white space, knowing I had words to put in it and not having them readily at hand... [/writer's whore moment]
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<Talk to educate; listen to learn.> ~ the other half of "L&L" ~ I have been dubbed the Rainmaker. Do not make me take your water for my tribe.
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