Lines

I'll never be a neat and tidy drawer of lines. I'll never put ink to page and send out that perfect ray, or make the circle come perfectly back to it's starting point. I'll never be constructivist or cubist, I'll never know the simple joy of breaking the world down to simple shapes and colours, of the de stijl. I'll never know that pure irreversible realization that everything is made up of the same stuff as everything else. I'll never know the math of life and colour and everything beautiful, not like those neat and tidy people will. I'll say the absurd, and I'll draw it too. I'll pick the type off my page, smush it around in my hands and scatter it back on the page. I'll distort it, and I'll probably use it to sell vanilla flavoured coffee. I'll stay within my bounds, for now, but I'll never know it the same way they will. I guess I'll know it, come to think of it, I guess I do know it. But not the same way. I know it in the strange way that my eyes decide I should learn it. I know shapes as the things they are, and not the other way around. I'll observe an object from all sides at once and I'll paint it on the same piece of canvas. Or at least, I would if I could keep my bloody hands still. I run my pencil across the page, and every beat of blood that comes through my veins tells the line to change it's course for just a second. I can't move fast enough and it's my head's fault. Unfortunately my head is all the way up there just minding it's own business, too busy with anxieties and fears to be bothered anyhow.

No, I'm not a neat and tidy person, I just colour inside the lines.