Watching Paint Dry.
There is comfort in creating something beautiful to mask the ugliness of the world at large
Relaxing In The Pigments Of My Imagination.
I have watched men die, their eyes going vacant, their lips whispering of loves or mom, it is as if they escape the cocoon in which their soul grew wings. I have seen abuse on children in trailer parks, and shabby homes, big eyes wide with fear, pure flesh bruised in dark reminders to listen carefully or be beaten. I have heard the cries of people, trapped inside a burning car, all efforts to reach them futile, my hands singed and soul melting in despair, as they barbecued in a metal incinerator. I have known loneliness that drives one to the edge of a bridge over a long chasm, to contemplate free-falling into complete oblivion, but suddenly realizing that no girl was worth dying over. I was a military policeman, who saw the ugly side of people, the dark sides of war, and the chaos of disorder, I came away swearing off its foul taste. Eventually I chose to be an artist, covering my recollections with bright colors, and coming to the understanding that after all I was forced to witness, I would much rather watch paint dry.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III