I doubt that anyone still watches my account due to my long absence, but as commemoration of my buying a new laptop. ( which means many more hours on the interweb ) I have decided to start lurking around here again. I haven't written anything in quite some time. Life has been crazy and hectic and after finishing my first year of University exhausted i had no time to realy sit down and think far less write anything worth a damn.

I was looking through an old journal yesterday and found something i had scribbled in the margin. I dont remember when i wrote it or what prompted me to do so, but i liked it

But what of a single stroke of an artists brush
little atoms of pain fall into place one by one, where they will stay
who is the painter?
what if all the lifetimes now, before us and to come were decided by one single brushstroke?
how would we feel then?
would we feel small and insignificant or indespensible because we are an intrinsically important part of a painting that is the cosmos, what then.

what if i am paint

what if you are too