Damn time has a funny sense of humor, the old adage, grab a hot pot on the stove and a second can seem like an hour, grab a hot woman, an hour seems like only seconds. It's all relative. Three canvases all half measured and half done looming, staring at me one by one, calling out :NOW NOW NOW a tear hits the thigh..chaos theory carries the teardrop to it's final call. Is this what this is my final call..I live for one show at a time, I die after each show has closed. And, through the voices in my head the whisper came: How & WhY?
Running through my head the beginning and ending of my show, my life, my dreams, I am ARt-Tist can this be the final curtain. Grabbed the cigarette on the stand, it had long gone out, burned to the end of it's purpose. Images haunt me, voices heckle me. "The show must go on" I declare.
Fell to the floor grabbed the brush, and the whisper came no more..but the shadows danced while I prepared for the show...3 days and counting. Will time be kind? I'm ARt-Tist..I live for a show, I die when a show closes.
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