爱可以多卑微

卑微的爱，就不爱了吗？

看了七月与安生

婚纱我穿上了，头纱我戴上了，

你怎不来了？

从此以后，我的视线永远都隔了层纱，看不清楚远方；

又或者，我的视线永远都隔了层纱，似乎看到了华发苍颜的我们依偎在摇椅上。

一辈子好像真的太长了

你让我爱你的那二千五百一十九天，

是二千五百一十九个满空繁星的夜晚，

是二千五百一十九个出光赫赫的早晨，

是二千五百一十九个姹紫嫣红的春天。

后来夜幕低垂，年深日久，却尽是无止境的痴心妄想。

那纱，我怎么舍得给自己掀起来呢？

I Don't Paint

Everyone is retarded in certain ways.
And I don't paint, I cant.

It's not about "don't be humble, it can't be that bad" or "everyone can paint, just look at the pictures and follow".
I just... can't...

I would look at any pictures, any objects,
imagining to have this tenuous relationship with it,
and I would pick up my pencil.

I could feel it, I could feel the energy that comes through creating with my hands,
the urge to discover,
the urge to capture,
the urge to create,
the urge to convey,
that I could express so much by starting to leave lines, colors and shades on the paper.

But...
it got stuck, the energy would just not be released,
it all got stuck at my wrist.

I do no have the ability to wisely twist my wrist to know where to place the first dot;
I do not have the ability to artistically flex and extend my fingers to make sensible connections between inks;
I do not have the ability to... make any sense out of this...

Frustratingly, tonnes and tonnes of images would play and play and replay in my head;
All the flawless images that could help to better express my flattened emotions, would only be obsessively painted in my head.
I, can never get it out.

I am retarded, that I can't paint.
I do not have the privilege to connect with people through this gestural doing of art.