Note and Explanation: The following is a snippet from my journal, and because it's from there, the chances of it making sense are very low. A forewarning, there will be a lot of run-on sentences and things that may provoke you to ask if I was high while writing, but don't fear. This is just a glimpse at what I'm really thinking a good 70% of the time, and you'll probably look at me funny afterwards.
Dear Journal,
detail is one of my favorite things. they're what makes something interesting, what can change a idea into something completely different and show it in a light that could completely change the way it's not only viewed, but is.
sometimes all you have to do is look at something in a way that varies from your own and a whole new world is revealed. a whole new palet of colors that light up a canvas into new tastes and textures, and has the potential to redefine the way something has been wired to do.
detail, thought and colors are some of life's greatest things. they shape our world into something completely different and it's beautiful in a way that most things could never hope to achieve.
the canvas of life and nature come in many colors and shades even though some people like to believe that it's all black and white. there are so many ways things can be looked at that it's almost arrognat to think that there can only be a certain way to see things, and that your view is correct.
thought and imagination comes across as certain colors in my mind, different swirls and shapes that can be redefined and woven into stories and pseudo lives that can give people the same life essence then if they were the characters themselves.
detail apon detail layered into a carefully woven story or painting filled with colors and shadows and the omnipotent beings that hover it their wake.
how different things are and how effective those colors and thoughts and worlds can be are what details make up. the tiny yet beautiful way things are stringed along and how in moments of distraction how smothering how lives can seemed compared to the bliss that other people live.
a writer's world can be shattered and rebuilt a hundred times over with details removed and added with a flick of our fingers and a change of palet. the gritty green of a grape in a italian wine grove can change into a coffee on a rainy day in a shop located in downtown new york with a single train of thought.
moods and colors, textures and life can be breathed into the harshest stories. even those surrounding death can paint the canvas with dark blue despair and white pain.
the most devine thing a writer can experience is when the line between our canvas and the grey of our own world blurs and the cavas and palet we've used to forge a world with becomes a part of our own in a slash of colors and feelings that never fade. the thrill of adventure we get while writing our characters, our silent friends, running across rooftops or fighting off their foes.
the feeling of immersion and importance it brings is almost addictive in the way it allures us across the line and our world flies by with the words we write or draw.
how devious are we that we could create our own masterpeices and be overtaken by them? it's a question left unanswered, because in the end, why would we care?
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