The pleasure of moving, others to physical expression, is glory, manifested through social climates, cold, hard, warm and loving any given moment. The passion that has guided, me, here, the novice fragile spirit, that has propelled me into this realm, this calm, of what I am now in the eyes of men, women and children is now in abundance leaking all over my studio, drowning my children. You know, some nights, I cry, while staring at their bare bones, as many sketch, I leave most of my children’s skeletal anatomy in depressive, urns knocking over descendants of what I used to love, cherish and afraid of losing. Standing in the waters, of transformative concepts, no, more plainly when your ideals change, when it is no longer about your sole pain but the shared consistency of our bowed heads in disparity, our chained, pained ideas of hope, I release the optimism on canvas, mediums ignorant to their own place in this world, they help me. I hear praise just as the sun listens to us create metaphors about its beauty and rays, do you think it can hear us? I mean, do not misguide your own knowing of who I am, I love the critique and praise. I feed off of it, but how much can I accept the dosage, of an over-exerted amount that I cannot consume without vomiting, scourge of paranoia, constantly wincing over the prideful terror I never want to hold in my bare hands. Just another, one, just another one. More so an angel.