February 14, 1999: But…why me?
My pen stops…my eyes turn another direction. Ink stained fingers look back at me. What have I done? It’s as if I’ve murdered words to watch them bleed—tiny drops of influence flood the clogged temples leading toward the impossible. Words fall hard against the wall and I’m expected to understand each purpose. Sometimes I laugh—while most of the time I’m amazed. Who am I to believe that I’m this so-called painter who is allowed to touch another mans dream? That! In itself “is” the dream—until you look at my fingertips and view the blood of lost words. Silence fills the empty spaces where time let go and you were able to fly—to soar beyond the valleys of God into caverns unseen to the naked eye.” If I could take, maybe if I could borrow—steal or trade, to captivate your thoughts but only for a moment. To sit not above—maybe to sit with, sit together, next to each other. To captivate your thoughts but only for a moment—if I could walk, maybe I could run, run to…but not away—to captivate your thoughts but only for a moment.