Crooked Lines

The birds chirping, the sky getting lighter. This has become my regular routine. I feel like I've become a vampire, hiding in the dark, hiding from the light. But instead of blood, I crave whiskey. It's like an eraser, but no matter how hard I press, the lines are still there, like scars that will always be there. Scars of war, scars of love. Their all deep and their all apart of us. We should learn from them and not try to erase them, but still we do. We try to hide from the pain like the light. We keep trying to cover it all up, with new pleasures, all to bury the past, cover the scars. But it all lies under the surface. Until strength can be found to address the pain, address the scars, no true happiness can be found. I can only hope that someday I can put down the eraser and learn to address the crooked lines and realize that the beauty of art isn't as much in the eye of the beholder as much as it is in the understanding of the process to which it took to make the lines itself...

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