Passion

I want to wake up one day and not know what damn time it is. That's when you know you slept hard. You lift your head and think to yourself "man it must be about 8 o'clock" It ends up being 2 in the afternoon. That's good sleeping.

I'm too focused for all that.

It be's like that sometimes, 'cause I can't control the rhyme.

I mean the inspiration, the urge to act. The longing for my mind to relinquish from its inner workings the ideas that burn within it. I have concepts that need to be expressed by color and line, by texture and techniques yet discovered. It calls me back to actuality to unburden myself of the ever growing weight of pre-creation that settles upon my shoulder, my back, my being with every unrealized masterpiece and every unforfilled prophecy of greatness that I visualize everyday. Not awakening from my slumber and refusing to succome to the clarion call of my God given gifts is tantamount to destroying the very essence of genius dwelling inside of myself that pleads for exposure.

The paintbrushes, the pencils, the pens are only the conduits of my understanding of my surroundings. The drawing, the painting, the utilization of media in the commission of creating artistic works are the manifestations of the continuous, unrelenting struggle to express the perceived realities of my existence. Any appreciation received is an embrace of my perspective and the acknowledgement of a minute triumph of one individual seeking to comprehend the world.

My art is the by product of my labors, not the end result.

The jubilation felt from showing my work and having just that moment of connection to another person, is dwarfed only by the momentary tranquility I feel from finally willing a piece of myself into reality. The birth of a thought to paper. I live to give my musings life and I would die were it taken from me.

That's passion.