Hemingway as a Painter

Writing used to be art.
These days it seems an inconvenience.
Blogs, emails, and text messaging.
I seem to do my best with Opera, symphonies, and a little “Brown Eyed Girl”.

I spend solitude and random afternoons flipping through old photos.
Myself, friends forgotten, and the ones who have passed onto that great unknown.

I have no decisions on where words should go.
The pen leads my armies march.
Patton as my ink, and I am the fifth army just following along as if a dog of war.

I have no answers as of yet, on how to create, or make original something as old as the language I read demands

I believe, somehow, that I must write enough content to break free of what I have read, stolen, or been influenced by to become original.

Writing like masturbation takes years of practice and repetition to perfect. You never came out with a bad product, but eventually you become an artist and not just some jerkoff.
At first, a young artist gets a glimpse of what is possible and that is enough to get them through the lonely nights.
Eventually, a style, precision, and fantasy appear and we all become artists.

I aspire to be no Rembrandt or Picasso.
I aspire to be the artist you are now beginning to read. I am complete in myself as the painter of me.
I am the in between.
I am the never before.
I am the voice of nothing, everything, and the river streams running since the dawn of time.
I am the voice of something never read, heard, seen, or described before.

I am your desperate soul explained.
I am the knife at your throat, and the calming hand on your shoulder.
I am the color on your canvas and the blackest of ink smeared with tears of sentimentality.

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