Art to me is so important. It's one of the most vital aspects of my life, it's always something there for me that I can count on. I have been drawing since I was six months old and I can always remember having an eye for detail, attempting to emphasis the very way the thumb digit connected to the main hand, or how eyelashes fall softly and heavily over the eye. I put that into stories which pour forth out of my head, the paint dripping eagerly across the page and the paper soaking it up greedily in return. The smooth ballpoint pen gliding gleefully across the surface, a single line the difference between a grimace or a smirk. All of it, I love it so much; it's me.
You know, I often wonder, Is life a light in the darkness, or a darkness in the light? It is the most basic question every human asks themself, every sentient being occasionally ponders on. Or a question in which plagues their very existence with its utmost badgering, belligerance and importance. How come our own existence is a paradox, in and of itself? That our planet was perfectly positioned in relation to the other celestial bodies to support the condition for life? And that life has both the power love and to kill?
I remember the morning when our school's principal before block two had announced over the intercom that five Vermont teenagers had been killed in a car crash. At first, I was a bit surprised they had announced it. Were these students from our school? What happened? And mostly, I was fairly confused. After all, weren't there several things that happen like this all the time? It's all over the news, something like: "Dad killed daughter to get back at her mom","A Mom Says She Asked Her Kids If They Wanted To 'Go To Heaven' Before Killing Them", or"Two teens dead in Riverdale double shooting". Those are just a couple quick headlines I found on a Google search just now. So many senseless deaths in the U.S. happen all the time, everyday, hundreds upon hundreds of deaths. What had these teens done that set them aside from all those other innocent peoples' lives? Why was their death so important?
Okay, so I have put off writing this for too long, but it's just been so hard to put down and phrase. . . Musical theatre. My life, my love, my heart. Ever since that first moment I attended the audition workshop for Fiddler on the Roof, jr., the feeling of the very hotness of the spotlight on my cheeks, the dizzying rush of adreline right before I step on stage (and I've only ever been in three), those are the most joyful moments of my life. Everything about it love, it has all fit naturally to me, and when I first discovered it in sixth grade, it was one of the most life-altering moments I've ever had. And it's true. Musical theatre has changed my life. It changed everything. It has become a way for me to channel my love of acting and singing, my only one and true joy, and for people to feel that from me.
I come from a time--or perhaps, it always was the time--where babies are tossed carefree in front of their screaming mothers, then shot mid-air by laughing soldiers, and where it is not uncommon to find of those soldiers, a child or two themselves.
I come from a time where women are still treated as objects, still treated as mere tools, and where they will seemingly always just be a mere object. Never human, just to be used then discarded carelessly, until they are needed again. And never once do the users of those tools happen to think that maybe those women are people. That the women are the mothers and the warriors, and that they above all people would know the value of human life? So does that mean if one does not recognize the humanity in another, that they are not human? I do not know, that is an answer I seek.
I am deeply sorry in advance. This is not one of my strong pieces, nor is it really even a poem. It's just a collection of words and thoughts, which I might somehow turn into an actual something, someday. They are just phrases; please pass no judgement upon it. ------
You are the rocky cliff by the storming sea in which I set my chipped, dusty pillars on You are the strong, strong wind which I carry my battle-scarred wings upon And the forests and leaves floating down which my hawk eyes pierce
You are the ocean waves in which I shall ride upon, floating on chaotic seas You are my animal guide which warm, red fur and bright, soothing, gentle brown eyes and that long tail to wrap around me And you are the sunny flavors of vivid red strawberries on my tongue
You are the pitch black heavy-footed mare which beats upon my freshened meadows You are the watchful deep eyes, carressing me to sleep