2.5.10
I am a prisoner of my own imagination. Being blessed by artistic ability--thoughts, visions, words--has created a sort of infection in me among others. No longer do I render gifted, but different... exiled to be forever trapped in my own expressions. If brilliance is seen as madness, then what good is the gift? When it is wasted among those who cannot see, who cannot understand... what does the artist do in the dark hauntings of the night made so vivid by her perception? How do you explain an ocean sunset to someone who can only see the sand? Impossibility wounds the free spirit; breaks the wings of success to be hindered by over-qualification. Having a mind so unlike the rest, so unique, can be a blessing for years, until you find out that you are completely alone in that mind. No one can understand the surface of your emotions and cannot comprehend the waters of the deep chasm of your heart. Who do we look to in these times? When there seems to be none of the Earth that understands, do we search the universe to find that one soul, that one distant connection that for just one moment, one second, we are understood by a total complete stranger? Do we wander, looking through every heart of the elite to find a mind powerful enough to identify with us? If we find such a person, what, then, do we do once we part ways, exhausted from the life we never knew we were destined to create? When the journeys separate, where will we look to for comfort? The only answer that possibly makes any sense is God. But, after years of being misunderstood, can we even relate to Him?
-Serenity Elizabeth
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