Smocks.

We’re sick and we mock, we play with the smocks that we wore during our younger art phase. Creativity and no doubts, throw paint at its mouth, as if to make words colorful like they uniquely can be. Innocent, so true. Naïve, confused.

Such sweet sadness when love is lost of a creative mind with the thoughts of changing the world and climbing mountaintops.

What happens when the world shapes the mind, like the swirls on that chair, clouded out by a sponge with white paint? Covering the yellow base, masking hazardous optimism, emphasizing the green and the pink, envy and misfortune, youth like innocence and a child-like personality. You are mauled by the bear of the mind, the bear of the world, the bricks from the sky.

They fall on your shoulders, shaping your height, destroying your posture, initiating fright. Capability crafted with a smock tied at waist, creativity capable of painting earthquakes. They rock and they tear leaving the world in despair because the fault type strike-slipping and destroying.

See the clarity?
It is not there.

Because the darkness of past defines the present layer.

There was a child in a smock, painting a chair. Colorful and bright, unaware of truth, of the meanings of colors and what the world had to share. You made a coat rack, I made a chair, sponged with swirls, the color of your hair. I won a prize, but was sadly dissatisfied, comparison became the thief of joy.

We’re sick.
We mock.

Done playing with smocks.
That innocence, untrue.
Naïve, abused.