What's the best literary piece you've read? here's mine...
February 19, 2007 8:15pm CST
THE ARTIST I'm an old artist of the olden days, yet inside I'm youthful, I join the parting ways. A long time ago, when people honoured different aspects of life, when thoughs went deeper, ways were decent and more paths led to nature... Ther lived thse wo tried in all ways to breathe a life into their actions and work, who ceased t age inside, because their creativity was forever-growing. Those who sought and found inspiration in every living thing, just one look of the eye and they saw the depth waiting to be seen, everything seemed alive. They yearned to capture tat so that more eyes could see what they saw. Could anyone? Ever? See the same they saw then? A long time ago, their lived an artist. is breaths were fast and deep as he walked the Eart in amazement. His hair flowed before his sparkling blue eyes as he made movements to reach the magic. Oh how often he was seen behind the canvas, lost inis tougts, lost in the beauty. All that seemed to lie there... in his eyes. Like now. In a rm so lovely that its every part seemed to be worth drawing, he sat, his eyes sliding from the wonderful wman posing before him t the sketch in his hands. He loved wen his ahnds were dirty frojm paint, he loved to feel what he is, he loved to feel what he was painting. Each time his fingertips softly touched everything he was about to draw, he had to become at one wit it. He loved everything he put to life. Desperate to proceed and not stagnate. That's art. Always changing- vivid and hidden, euphorical and sad. HIs hands swifted on the canvas to the sound of wild violins. And now, there she was - so amazing before him. Like te way he saw his painting with every bit, thought it was yet to be painted, he saw her, heard her, though the words weren't yet spoken. For he could feel er. Loved her. Yes... He admired the long dark curls sliding down her bare shoulders, he was dying to preserve the softness of her white skin, the beauty of her thick lips, the yearning and the awe in her eyes. He moved closer and touched her gently, his fingertips upn her lips. He was in love. He didn't like when passionate lookks turned into glances, when the words I love You became just a phrase. No. Not a custom, not just a surface! Always giving his fullest and searching for the deepest, living in the most rue way. Her every part his part. "I love you" he whispered. And that's the way he lived his life. In touc, in closeness, on passion, in love, trough inspiration. And that's the way he still keeps on living. For there is always a now, always a new chance to see and create. And the ways are many. We all are artists. In every single twist of and of each artist there are endless worlds. by 'blessedchild' deviantart.com
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