But I didn't know there was a different kind of lie. An escape into a bigger darkness, a lonely dance on its own on the solo sounds of a griefing piano. Madness filling the gaps between every note, these milliseconds that define the next ones.
But the stories we were told were filled with lies and deciept, or was it the real ones that actually were? For the real comes too close to the imaginary sometimes, the mirage of hopes and dreams reveals its true identity at some specific moments, and your heart sinks in its blend of never ending turmoil, ever after.
So we grow up believing our hopes and dreams can actually become true, and well, for some they do, for others, we keep dreaming. We push and go on and expand. Great, we expand. But I fear expanding so much till I become invisible to the world, something nobody will ever notice.
So I keep pieces, of dreams, hopes, fears, experiences and I hold them close.
I keep fragments of shattered dreams, of unwanted events, of dark and twisted pictures taken by the photosensitive nature of my mind, burnt inside for the years to come, or until the better (or worst) will come to be burnt over it one day.
|Jackson Pollock: Yellow Islands 1952|