A Feeling, But It's No Finger Painting

Studio visits until 3:45am.

These have been some real beautiful days all cooped up with friends in a building that feels like yours.

This department, yes, lacks so much, but man do the people make up for it all.

How hard it is to not feel good when you're doing something you love and know with bare hands.

The warmth from the sun has been missed, sure, but lying on this hardwood floor looking out of this wall-wide window has been the most satisfying.

It's hard to find an all blue sky.

And these hills make a view like none you've ever seen, like it's not even trying and this is just the way it is now. This can't all be for me.

I don't deserve it.

This need in me to run around like a child, to play with the wind has been so prominent to my days.

The cemetery is my new park, I picnic there, good talks with good friends, sleep, draw, write,

who could've known the cemetery could heal all? Or heal me?

And there's something about the city that gives you quiet nights when needed. No cars, just trees all lined up in rows like walls, and you walk in the center where the lights don't hit.

Sometimes they flicker character. In and out like life.

If you can't do your dreams, live in the dreamy city and feel it out.

Like a sister, it's close enough.

I've got good books to read, and some hard heeled days for roaming streets,

there are too many lakes to keep up with. Too many stories that the strangers will tell, too many soon to be mothers, and child smiles.

The candy stores haunt me just as much as the time it takes for the leaves to change their colors.

Everyone is striving for something here, you can sense it. A hunger for brothers deep within, beyond lashes, to hold on to what counts.

There is no reliance on the outside world, what you've got is what you have and there's nothing coming for you. Not even a package.

Maybe that's it, it's not what others are looking for that matters, but the fight for it.

There's fight. Unpublished, untelevised fight found behind buildings in corners with worn out cobblestones.

It's hard to stay down when you have so much.

I have too much. I need to give these things away, myself away

Become the self-giving city that's brought the last bit of me up

I've been raised by strangers, raised like buildings, wild like wolves.

I am a part of something when I want to be and I do, and I am, and that's really all it takes

It's just an opening for the sore who want something more