From Who I Was, To Who I Am by Kevin Adams
Paint splashes all across the board. Vibrant shades of red and yellow pour over the pure white walls, creating a massive whirlpool of color spilling all about the floor. To some this image is unsettling, the purity of the whitewashed sanctum ruined; but to others the room has become something much more than just four walls and a ceiling, for it has become a work of art.
I am an artist; the canvas upon which I paint, however, is not a solid. My whitewashed room; my masterpiece is inside. Constantly crafting, molding and creating, we are all artists of the mind. The clay we sculpt is the ideas of others, always being molded, recreated, and improved to fit ones personality. The paints we use are made up of life’s experiences, its truths and untruths. The dark tones of betrayal, the bright pigments of joy all color the regions inside of us.
The artist’s work is never done. Our portraits lack stasis and are ever changing. Through life, through death, through all, our work never remains stationary. Colors are added and mixed, the clay touched up in areas and completely rearranged in others, but the work is always our own. As life goes on, these works of art grow and develop into an individual, changed and rearranged by the world around them. I am an artist. We are all artists of the mind, constantly changing our masterpieces, constantly developing as individuals.
Goodnight, but not Goodbye
Gliding, almost flying, in circles around the frozen lake, my soul smiles. The calm, chilled air breezing across my skin erases all worry from my mind. On the ice there is no drama, no pain, no confusion; all the loud colors of life drain from vision, leaving only the purest, truest feeling of joy streaming from my eyes.
Glancing down I see my fallen friends, my worn warriors that have meant so much. Covered in blood stains and bruises, tears and tears, they are shadows of their former selves. While no longer the shiny and clean entities of the past, their magic and power still hold true. Each crack, each scar, tells a different tale. They speak of epic battles of wit and power, speed and of strength. Night after night they hide me from the weight of the world, transporting me to paradise.
But tonight, they sing their final ballad. Tonight, the beauteous steel, pumping in majestic harmony with my body, plays a magnificent song. Tonight the magic lives. Tomorrow, they shall hang their laces for good, and be replaced by the shiny, clean entities of the future. A new novel, ready to be written, the blank pages begging for words. The stories of old, however, will never be lost. Tonight, as they sing their final ballad, all is well. My soul will forever smile with enamored memories of fallen friends; the magic will never die.
Clouds and Concrete
The wind rushes through his hair. He closes his eyes and smiles. Suddenly the air pushes him off balance and he tips over, staring death in the face, only to be saved by another calm breeze blowing the opposite direction. As if watched by a guardian angel, he has managed to yet again escape his imminent defeat, for luck is always on his side. In his mind he is invincible and has no infirmities.
As I observe from below, he rides above on the clouds, sliding through life without a worry in the world. The fluffy white paradise upon which he floats glides off into the distance and the thunderstorm begins yet again pouring over my head. Memories flood into my mind as I pain for a life like his. My feet drag upon the concrete, leaving craters with every step, for I was once like him. Knocked off my holy chariot I have fallen to reality and become a pariah. I long for the simplicity of the carelessness my brother enjoys.
The dark hair upon my head is pressed down by the rains of life, while his blonde mane shimmers in the sunlight of blissful unawareness. I watch and wish for a life like his, but I also worry, for I know how it shall end. Like me, the day will come when he shall meet his finish. An obstacle that need be overcome will look in his eyes and laugh, as he simply waits for it to move from his path. He shall fall from his holy chariot down to the earth, and like me, journey on the concrete, having finally realized he is not invincible. I watch, wait, and worry, for the day he will fall.
A Grown Man
Cold and covered in blood, an infant opens his eyes for the very first time; the constant darkness he has always known has been replaced with a bright and complex new reality. From the very moment this newborn takes his first breath his incipient body begins to grow. Destination unknown, he begins to transform, slowly, into a man. Through the years he shall learn to become a man; he shall grow up.
The process of growing up is a complicated mess of emotions and experiences, each changing the man that is to walk out into the world upon his eighteenth birthday. He learns to feel; finding and discovering love, only to have it torn away, thus teaching him heartache. He watches those around him, seeing their plunders and successes, comparing their lives with his, predicting for some their futures, and in others seeing his own. He listens to those wiser than he. He crafts his opinions. He crafts his morals. He crafts his character.
With his arsenal of knowledge, he is ready. Throughout time he has learned many lessons, some painless, others pain-full. He is a result of the world around him, those who taught him, those who tested him. He has grown into a man.