I think its time to fly
Fasten the rope and take the dive
Feel the air in the sky
This time its just me, myself and I
Close your eyes and pray aloud
Feel the pressure rise from the ground
You can’t stop so keep going
Feel the peace growing and growing
In a while it may all be over
Sitting in your chair
With silver streaked hair
Remember the day you took that dive
Remember when it was your time to fly
Let’s take it back to the beginning. To my beginning that is…before it all really began…There were pencils, HB, 2H, HH… a pencil was a pencil to me really. Then the crayons, the wax kind, and the slightly hateful oil crayon. Hello deadly toxins at my fingertips!
Ahhhh and paint. Watercolour, oil, acrylic, and the Barbie make up i thought was paint.
Through all this, i struggled at my artsmanship during the fumbling undiscovered stages of my life.
Then life took a turn and perfection came in a box of 10.
The slick black casing of a pen so natural in my hand, it could have grown into an extra finger. I can’t quite explain the feeling of a fineliner. It’s almost like you have to know yourself, know what you have and what you’re gonna do with it. It’s the kind of confidence a skydiver has. Once he jumps of that edge, he knows, this is it. Either fly or die. Same with the pen. Be sure of every stroke you make coz lets face it, ink was not made to be erased! You know there’s just no turning back, even if you’ve drawn that eye a few inches too close to the other, thats pretty much where it will remain.
I may be crazy but i find more surety in my pen than anything else in life. Maybe i don’t control it. Maybe it controls me. My hand knows exactly what path to take as soon as that cap comes off. The realisation that i make no defeating errors with that pen is nothing short of profound. Without a doubt through that black ink flows some kind of magic. Now it may not be a perfect picture, all symmetrical and expertly aligned but it sure is always a picture even i can be proud of!
You feel the day,
A troubling breeze, pass away
The pace of hours, minutes, seconds
Travel at a speed, your attention beckons
The blur of dust from the rolling day
Remember the moments you keep away
The turmoil of time that ticks in your ear
The stench of the day wont disappear
It wont last, this day they say
so take a breath, just rest, just lay.
This turmoil it stinks!
Now it’s over, it’s gone
with a sigh of relief he thinks.
The world is at your feet
But you have nowhere to go
No exact path or particular flow
The limit is the sky
We know we can’t fly
Standing on the ground
Staring all around
Begging your way to be found
Don’t crawl in the darkness
Just stroll in sunlight
Lift up those feet, now hold on tight
Don’t rest in the shade of another’s glory, make your point,
build your own story.
I tell you the struggle will follow
But when the world is at your feet
That’s your hope for tomorrow.