wandering through the trunks of trees that strive to breathe in the dust-choked land of the future, i watch as my hands touch bark that is too rough, too real for me to just ignore. i once walked to a dead ship hidden in the woods with a young lady and we touched the plants and animals as we walked through the swamps and summer heat. we were both strangers to eachother, new friends, and we both found something we were looking for; i found hope of a less mundane existence, she found hope of escape from the drudgery of pointless wandering. we both looked at eachother and saw lighthouses lit by ancient keepers who had long departed, and followed those lights with our eyes shut even when we knew they were fading.
it is now years later, and i still shut my eyes and feel those plants we touched, see the cracks in the sidewalk pass underneath my sweating feet, and i still look for lighthouses in everyones eyes hoping that the storm will soon subside and that all will be clear, and that i will not find myself thrust upon the jagged rocks.

i do want to think of myself as a passionate man. i know that i thrive for feelings of all types, of joy, sadness, desire, accomplishment, loss, loneliness, contentment, anger. i want to wallow in each moment, make them last forever and be able to find the string between them that reveals who i am, the commonality between experiences. i want to get lost in every feeling and experience it repeatedly until i understand my reaction, understand how the person i am defines what i learn and how i act because of my feelings. i don't wish to do this because i seek to control them, but rather only so i can be able to understand others reactions to things, and to be able to communicate what i learn through my paintings.

it seems that it is somehow a shameful thing nowadays to be unabashedly passionate. somehow it is improper to be an idealist and a romantic and be utterly sincere about it. the proper attitude is rather a detached jaded view of the world, where love is a lie people tell themselves to feel good about the world, and where truth is an antiquated relic that exists only as an example of our forefathers foolishness and pigheadedness. as if truth is real, as if love is attainable. and so long ago i adopted the habit of hiding my feelings in half-truths, in riddles and lies so that who i truly am is unmockable, so that i may live my life without fear of feeling guilty for wanting to love everyone and discover all truth and beauty. and when the idea of a passionate artist is mocked as a farce and a starry-eyed ideal, i laugh along.

most people see only the emptiness and despair. they are paralyzed by the openness of life, the truth that you can do as you please and that there are only consequences after your actions, not before. i know i do not know everything about life, but i am pretty sure of some things. that because everyone can do what they want all the time, it is important to decide what you want from life, and work towards having it. once you know your destination, life becomes a well-trod road, with only small detours from the path that do not deter you from your final goal. and that life is utterly meaningless without a goal. people see too many things to be, and cannot decide, and while their time away with things to keep busy, things to keep them going until they see the path meant for them, and most never realize the path only appears to those that set out on it, that fortune truly favors the bold.