Viewing life through the lenses of an artist is a different experience, a different sort of life. “You read too much into things.” I’ve heard that before, multiple times. Maybe it isn’t that I read too much into things, if at all. Some say I’m blind to the physical world, I think it’s eye-opening. It could be both, or neither. I’m never preoccupied with the truth.
“You’re so complicated,” they argue. “In what way?” I wonder. “You create an elaborate essay out of one simple aspect.” I admit, I am very much complex, but not complicated. My complexity is the bottom of the ocean the scientists have not yet discovered. I do not understand my complexity, but it isn’t the way you describe. My complexity is not complicated. My complexity is beautiful.
Categorize me into your little boxes. Scoff. Roll your eyes. Base my success on the prestige of my job title. Determine my worth by correlating my income with my age. We live in a world where judgment doesn’t hide in corners, oh, it’s not like that at all. It’s on every busy street.
“She’s a dreamer.” they say with a grain of salt.
I am a dreamer.
You see, I never see a palm tree as just an exotic plant imported into America for decorative purposes. That sentence in itself has triggered in me an image of palm trees as ornaments on a tree.
I gaze from my balcony, and one palm tree with its feather-shaped leaves is a woman from the 1800’s dressed in a crinoline topped with a bonnet. I feel modesty, meekness. The other palm tree across the street is a hot air balloon, suspended. I feel a sense of grounding. Indoor palm trees with their fan-shaped leaves are peacocks – peacocks perched with their wings confidently spread open, ready for love. You see, in this description of palm trees, I’m already very much getting carried away.
To the onlooker it may appear that I am embellishing the world. Maybe this is just how I see it. I don’t scour for beauty. This isn’t out of desperation. Beauty comes knocking on my door. Beauty is that welcoming elementary classmate who asked you if you would like to join her on the swings.
“Get your head out of the clouds,” they joke, but I can sense the cautious seriousness from their tone. Your humor is as satirical as the crinolines.
Maybe artists are slightly mentally imbalanced because we lose ourselves in our surroundings. On the contrary, we become found in a way that cannot be described through literal language. The literal world is bleak – it lacks emotion, I’m just going to throw that out there. You say her purse is full, I say her purse is a Mary Poppins bag. Do you know what a Mary Poppins bag symbolizes? Magic. Her purse is magic. Do you feel that? That enrapturing feeling…
And I don’t care what you have to say. You cannot convince me it is anything but magic.
Sometimes this beauty find its way into a poem. God bless words. The way the mind translates emotions into words to the best of its ability astounds me each and every moment. Words are so powerful. Words are moments frozen in time. Writing, like any form of art, is the way the mind photographs a moment. Everything is poetry, and everything, my god, is art.