artchick

Most of my friends are artists. I slip into their poems, or their paintings, and they pick me apart: what they find beautiful, or coarse, or tasteless. My friends write about their own time on this earth as though each day is an epic, a precious moment-turned-odyssey in the story of their lives. Their hearts beat golden and radiant through their words, their songs, their art.

We are woven together as fairytales, as our own archetypes, as legends. The art weaves life into something of mythic proportions, our hair windswept, our eyes jewels reflecting the night.

I think that myth of ourselves is the lifeblood and that keeps fire in our veins. I look at my love and see him larger than life, his movements so fantastically beautiful a dance there in the heavens; until you realize there is nothing so beautiful as a god up close.

I have a little mud, a little rain, but I'm trying to remember how to fashion my own myth from the ground up, remember what it's like to glow inside my own story.