This is so surreal, yet not lacking in any visceral sentiment. It is deeply felt.

O how I wish I could create, correct, colour, rehabilitate certain aspects of my life – past and present and future. I wonder about choice and the arbitrary decisions we make daily. I think of the realm I am living in, and however it may seem – bleak or vivid, surely serves a greater purpose of rehabilitation – to an ideal state of conscience and being. May I choose that which brings me closer to that Ideal.

I see myself being attracted to both characters – their desires and their needs. I relate as much to him – creating, in the hope and need to save; as much as I relate to her, in the helplessness and reliance of some being, that is greater than this limiting dimension of which I happen to be living in. I think I tarry being in a coma more than I am being a creator. I am crawling in a dimension, navigating my way through paths in hopes to actualize and be mesmerized by the creator of the flower, than the flower in itself. But thank you for flowers nonetheless.

In the lives of others, I wish to be like the creator, or at the very least – a semblance of colour. In the lives of others, I hope I spill colours – colours of one refined palate that is so vivid, you cannot not find life in that which is coloured. I hope the things that I touch, model and make take on colours that carry a saturation and vigor that is enough to rouse the living dead. Yet, to rouse is not my doing. I should only colour and colour well. Or maybe, I should colour myself enough, so that the very things that I touch, be coloured by touch, rather than a brush.

O how I rhyme Selah.

This I sign, May I, may You – have I to colour and be alive.