I am a sad painting: in my stillness is a certain despair. E. E. Cummings, who was a painter, too, poeticized about a love that who, if she desired to close him, he would end “as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending.” And I wonder, who has loved like this? Anyone? I sense only silence is the answer to that. My colors are all shades of blue, deepening only when the currents of sorrow swim through me. Did I ever truly know the rhythm of the world’s motions? For if I did, I never sensed the trail of music that led me to that love, to whom I would close if she desired, to whom there is imagining transcending the bounds of this earth. I feel I am not alone. Who else has sketched himself a still life awaiting the bold colors of unknown passion? We cannot wait forever. These sad paintings, when the canvas dries, less than the shadow effects remain of what was once rendered there. But for now, patience.
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