Fish out of water

Sometimes you feel it's on the palm of your hand and sometimes you don't. And sometimes you feel like a fish out of water, a total misfit who will forever not know why a bunch of percentages marqueeing across the screen are so interesting or why a crash should not cause panic or why without the necessary knowledge about grown-up stuff, you would be the kid your parents set aside in an adult conversation. You are confused with the paradoxes that surround aging and youthfulness, the need for survival, the need to be acknowledged ...

Perhaps you can only talk about trees and the sound of the breeze. Perhaps you can only talk about music and things that pertain to art and drawings. When the magazine spreads it's pages, you check out the ads for gross airbrushing, editorial typos, products that are just beyond affordability. You can't comprehend this.

Perhaps you can only talk about yourself, your experiences with other friends, your secrets and enchantments, your neuroses. Because the moment you so much as whine, you become the child your parents set aside. And so they ask you to draw in one corner. You keep drawing and drawing and drawing -- different colors and shapes appear, the brilliance of its vast emptiness becomes transparent only to you, and you call it inspiration while others ignore it. You keep drawing lines that divide chapters into acts, lines that divide the world into meridians, lines that make up people watching out for the next discovery. You draw out the oceans and lands and mountains. You draw out water, you draw out blood.

You can't follow the story anymore. You draw the heavens and the people who no longer fly in it.