He hunched over the sketch pad, mind wandering, wondering. She scratched the eraser into the paper. grimacing over every mistake. He sighed, crumpled the sketches and tossed it into the bin.
He felt like the pad. Interchangeable, failing in a purpose that wouldn't reveal itself. She hid the thoughts away, believing it would be judged on aesthetics and nothing more.
It was all so complicated and meaningless. When had there ever been a time before these feelings? Who could sympathize with someone who failed their only merit? They wondered, and worried, and quietly hid themselves away.
Some souls really do feel they're empty on the inside. That if you reached into them, you could fish out only air. That they're soulless, without passion, and deserving no mercy.
That by compare to another, they are hardly of worth.
Show me two artists of any light. Tell which one is greater, which is better. Which one deserves to be seen. Who is closer to perfection, who is perfect. Which one has achieved, which one failed. Tell me all of this.
Tell me who decided you weren't good enough, and that was the end of it.
Words are powerful. Acts are profound. Silence is potential. Art...does not belong to any one person. It's a spotlight. Not into your flaws. Not into your worth. It's a spotlight into your heart, and soul. There's more inside than you might think.
Show me an artist of any light. Show me an artist in you..and I'll show you love.
