The Wrong Portrait
A certain restless feeling compels you to put your words to paper, although you are not sure what to write. On the surface of yourself, you find hatred, raw, intoxicating, and sprinkled with residual guilt. You write, "I hate ignorance; I hate superficiality; I hate the unknown and the uncontrollable twists of savage fate. I hate pretentiousness, and thus I hate you. I hate this flat aesthetic world we live in, and thus I hate myself for being able to see it got what it is. But even more, I hate you for becoming that way, deep as cardboard, real as plastic, unabashed as always." But even as you write your words, you paint your hatred, you sculpt your disdain… you know not how to right these wrongs. So you rally your paints and your canvas and render an accurate likeness in hopes that another will.