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Like a piece of french bread left on a counter, I get stiff and dry with time, and words are not coming my way… if only a soft hand could sprinkle some water on me and warm me up — to be gentle again.
I want to be gentle again…
Have you ever experienced a migraine?… when an iron claw firmly grasps your head, and you are not yourself anymore? I feel like something like that happening with humanity. A world is having a migraine… its hard to talk and everyone wants to hide in the shadow. In fact, many are past the point when they can look straight into the light without making a painful face. Truth infused with hope, love-infused with romanticism, and freedom that is like hot iron — all are out of place whenever you place it… But maybe it’s just an excuse for my inability to be constantly in awe of the beauty.
So these words are for me. They are in the open — so that I have no place to hide from myself and the imagery that haunts me at night. I wonder if the artist poor himself out there just to stay sane…
I want to be gentle again… I want to be the Moon in the daylight, reverently inviting soothing darkness, all the while reflecting the light of your being. Should my photography reflect the truth? I don’t care to tell you the truth, and I will never tell you the truth, cause once it passes the mouth — it’s like a moment after it’s stolen by a camera; now, let me photograph you some more.
I can offer you a kiss, but since you are the first to invite me to kiss you — I think I will pass on it also…
What of the seeds that never touch a fertile ground? Do they dream of fruit and leaves and flowers? Are they like a universe absent of words and names? Are they tense like a boy in love? Are they bitter-sweet like poetry that never touches ears of the beloved?
