A chapter from my memoirs.

Quite the artist, I once raised my hands high in the air and painted beautiful landscapes. Soft portraits of mountain-tops infected with soft subtle breezes that would gently push the leaves to dance around one's head. I bowed unto all ears and we rejoiced in creation. This being done I'd twist the cogs of life into another dimension much like the one from which I came. Wedged somewhere between the niche within sound and feeling where I traveled long and long with the sun piercing my eyes. My pupils would dilate as fast as my ears and I would peer into the darkest depths of what is me. A place where murder, violence, and addiction were all acceptable things. It seems that was my mold, ever growing despair would blanket the sky and the darkest storm clouds would surround me as to try and signal something wicked to come. Warning me of the obvious. By this time I had pieced together the puzzle of just how existence molded I not ever being one to ever find myself faded beyond the truth. In the end none of these things mattered. If I'd ever raised my voice and admitted that I could look into someones eyes and know everything about them I would surely have been met with dis-encouragement. NO ONE wants someone around who can tell them more than they know about themselves just by their eyes and the tone of their voice. What I've been saying in a nutshell is that sight and SOUND are doorways into the very soul of every vessel that drags their feet across this earth. As a child I found many influences in family and music but the older I grew the more I longed to board up doors for my soul is blacker than the darkest of nights. Refusing to gain influence from any place besides my own mind. This eventually left me empty and cold, unable to ever open my heart to this world again.