Crayons, colour pencils, water paints, palette, sketches and paint brushes; on this desk are placed nearly everything I’ll ever need. But yet, for some unknown reason I’m surrounded by blank canvases hung onto their respective easels, staring right back at me. I could fill away all this emptiness if somehow I manage attempting to proceed. But the void that’s on the inside, is growing more and more comforting with ever growing speed. I could swim against the tide, but the inertia that’s been set for far too long made me forget what it means to keep moving. I could ignite the engine and race off to where I’m supposed to be, but lately I can’t feel my sense of direction and everything else seems much like a blur to me. I could ramble on for much further than forever, stealing inspiration from a half-torn half-withered list of similes and metaphors, I found one glazing afternoon in the last week of February. I could explain to you how baffling it truly is to be constantly in need of doing something but never being able to accomplish a thing. I could, I can and I want to really. But if I have to be honest, lately it all seems a bit pointless to me.
So for a little more while, I’ll ignore white papers and unspilled paint, mistaken directions and untainted stain, wayward dreams and lost gain. And also, I’ll try not to memorise what I have written until next time I remember something better to speak.