t h e  t h i n g s  w e  d o

Broken people painting, to them, whole pictures
which are all messy parts of the same important story,
picture parts all based on limited vision but this common inherent feeling of ‘greater’
and elusive knowledge of ‘whole’,
almost a nostalgia of a foreshadowing sort.
See, it seems sparked by the collective memory, remembrance of things they've never done, and homesickness for places they've never been.
And these nevers are not for lack of trying. These nevers are due to, on the part of the memories and places, lack of existence.
And this nonexistence is not for lack of seeking, because we've found it.
We just can’t touch it. But we feel it. We can’t see it, but it’s burned in our minds like the spots of sun in your eye once you look down at your shoes after making eye contact with fire.
So it exists.
But only to the point of proving itself to the individual. The broken person. Who then picks up a paintbrush to try and see what we’re seeing.

The more important your picture is to paint, the deeper the struggle to touch your brush to the canvas.