Grant me use of your hues, mysterious creator. Lend me sight of soothing blue, sound of vibrant red, and feeling of passionate green. Tint my world with all the flavors of your rainbow, then set me free to play amid the swirling colors of joy.
I Will Be Joyous
Art and children are joyful expressions of life. Of course, pets are often considered children, and the critters at svinsanctum are my only beloved wards. I cherish them as others might treasure their own offspring.
From this page you can access all my joy, all my creations. Ars longa, vita brevis. [If your Latin is a bit rusty, please click here for the Wikipedia article explaining this phrase.
I become banter incarnate.
Painting words upon fluffy clouds.
I am clever beyond all measure,
or at times not so much, not really,
as I speak of this or of that, that is,
but mostly this, for that would be there,
and here is where I find myself, ordinarily.
Still, my mind does wander about it seems,
and I ponder how strange it all is.
How distinct up is as opposed to down.
How black and white appear so clear,
when in fact they do not exist,
not beyond this memory in which I now play.
So when you ask is it evil or is it good,
are these your thoughts or are they mine?
Do you think that I should answer straightforwardly?
Am I to bend my gender around the sun,
plant my age within the dark spaces of the moon?
Shall I define my being in another's terms,
mutating my skin into all the hues of the rainbow?
Or, shall I amuse myself with my own rules,
and rule it all, as both master and as slave,
as actor and as director, as audience and as censor?
And, why would anyone care what I think?
Why should they be concerned at all?
For I am but a figment of their imagination,
scribbling verse in crayon upon freshly painted walls,
honesty easily wiped away with cleanser,
deception removed quickly in careless strokes,
making the universe pure once again,
as if such a thing were possible.
So mete out my just reward for righteousness sake.
banish me to the corner as the rogue that I am.
emancipate the stars to fall freely once again,
and save reality from the likes of me.
But, in actual fact, such justice is so silly,
for actually I have no crayons,
and your walls were but illusion.
So whilst I weep alone in my exile,
even as you close all your doors to me,
I suddenly recall a forgotten truth:
I am the sleeping hermit.
My dreams are naught but bright colors,
transversing a darkly-lit world,
and my salty tears are nothing to scorn,
only seasoning for thirsty blades of grass,
and Joy was always within my grasp,
never stolen, as some would have had me believe.
So, to your inquiries I now reply:
"Yes is the answer, and No is the answer,
for the question and the response are always the same,
though the inquisitor is often too wise to see it."
Such is the way of the philosopher poet,
Painting fluffy clouds with inane words.