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Sep 10, 2007

The Trip Series: Painted

I paint. My life. Yours. Everyone’s life. Hope... the last thing which is lost. Losing, winning, ¿who decides it? In my world, I do. In everyone’s world, anybody except me. But now, I am in my world, and all my senses are amplified and leave the awful place where I am. And they travel with me to the most amazing landscapes. I can create whatever I want. I forget about people. If I draw a river, I hear it flowing by my side. If the sun appears on my paper, it burns my skin. If there are birds, they know me. If there is blood, it is in the shape of a tear. The earth may part into, and still I don’t fall.

I paint. My life. Yours. Everyone’s life. Anguish... the first thing that disappears. Pencils give their colored bodies as to remain in eternity. Today the suffer is extinguished, and everything makes sense. My world and everyone’s world get together, and all my senses become alive, and they are transformed inside me. And I can throw up emotion, and create more life. If I draw fast, time accelerates. If I draw softly, the breeze caresses me. If I draw strong, death wipes out. If I draw slowly, time stops. The earth may break in two, and someone will fall, but not me.

I paint. My life. Yours. Everyone’s life. Oblation... to that who could appreciate it, or simply for me. And if somebody deprives me off the paper, I will paint on a tablecloth, the table, on the floor or walls. And if somebody takes the pencils from me, I will use my own saliva, the oldest wine, or even the trace of a furrower stone. And if somebody deprives me off my hands, I will use my feet or mouth. And if somebody covers my eyes, I will paint by memory. The earth can explode, and I will paint in the moon.

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