Love. A topic of eternal inspiration and despair, writer of a thousand songs, lake of a million tears, giver of a hundred gifts.
I wish that for one year I could live without love. I crave level headed reason and proper time management. Id like not to stay up late wondering, for this year is an important one. Time without emotion will perhaps complete my degree for me.
Sadly, (as my mother pointed out over herbal tea and cigarettes) I have an artistic temperament. My work is nothing without passion. Everything I have created has been born from desire and a deep desperate need to either avenge or prove. So, I ask where is passion when I need it? Why must I constantly think but never do?
I miss the boy I love so much. Ive loved him for a long time and although I know he cares deeply for me, hes never mentioned the heady infatuation of which I write. I realised what had happened to me when I caught myself watching him sleep, gazing at every perfect contour of his body and stroking his hair. We cannot be together, we are separated by 3500 miles of Atlantic Ocean, meaning that our meetings are rare but intense.
So, the last month of 2005 seeped away and I find myself back home alone. I call upon love to paint my canvas and fill my sketchbook. I call upon passion to wake me up early and help me create. But neither answers and here I sit, wasting time on the internet and worrying about all the work that Im not doing.
Eeek.
I wish that for one year I could live without love. I crave level headed reason and proper time management. Id like not to stay up late wondering, for this year is an important one. Time without emotion will perhaps complete my degree for me.
Sadly, (as my mother pointed out over herbal tea and cigarettes) I have an artistic temperament. My work is nothing without passion. Everything I have created has been born from desire and a deep desperate need to either avenge or prove. So, I ask where is passion when I need it? Why must I constantly think but never do?
I miss the boy I love so much. Ive loved him for a long time and although I know he cares deeply for me, hes never mentioned the heady infatuation of which I write. I realised what had happened to me when I caught myself watching him sleep, gazing at every perfect contour of his body and stroking his hair. We cannot be together, we are separated by 3500 miles of Atlantic Ocean, meaning that our meetings are rare but intense.
So, the last month of 2005 seeped away and I find myself back home alone. I call upon love to paint my canvas and fill my sketchbook. I call upon passion to wake me up early and help me create. But neither answers and here I sit, wasting time on the internet and worrying about all the work that Im not doing.
Eeek.
the_fox: