Ultramarine
01/11/15 08:21
Would that I could paint with powder, the pigments so pure and precise, blue blazing deeply and darkly in a hue that your eye doesn't believe, that you think must be fake, that someone is shining some sort of blacklight on this blue, so intense and light consuming it is.
I want to wear this blue, borrow its intensity, make it mine, wear it as a cloak over my own self doubt, and what I will lack in fashion sense will be outstripped by confidence, as men and women are drawn to me yet nervous in my unsettling, throbbing deep blue presence, too mighty to reproduced properly on a computer screen. What—they will think—is a man like that capable of, that would garb himself in such overwhelming blue. They will mark my words and consider my ideas and think "He's mad, but great men often are."
I want an ultramarine work bench at which I will sculpt, and cut, and draw, and write, and paint, and the flecks and shavings of my work will spatter and chip and form constellations on the surface, and every now and then I will clear everything away and lay my hands on the table, contemplating the blue slate that has absorbed the poor offerings to my genius.
I want to paint my room this hue, remove all the furniture, and sit in the middle of it, imagining myself adrift in space, because if space had color, if it were anything other than nothing punctuated by small bits of something, it would be this blue, so heavy it seems to have a pulse. And I would fly through my blue night sky, like I did when I was three, when the might of my mind overcame the weight of my body, when my body had less weight to overcome, as I closed my eyes and flew and was brave and conversed with monsters, and discovered they weren't so bad, or beat up the ones that were, and had adventures, ran from danger, charged straight at it, and in the end got the girl even though I didn't know why that was important yet. And I'd spin and drift and feel the wind in my hair (because blue space has air), and I'd have no limits because nobody had told me where they were.
I want to wear this blue, borrow its intensity, make it mine, wear it as a cloak over my own self doubt, and what I will lack in fashion sense will be outstripped by confidence, as men and women are drawn to me yet nervous in my unsettling, throbbing deep blue presence, too mighty to reproduced properly on a computer screen. What—they will think—is a man like that capable of, that would garb himself in such overwhelming blue. They will mark my words and consider my ideas and think "He's mad, but great men often are."
I want an ultramarine work bench at which I will sculpt, and cut, and draw, and write, and paint, and the flecks and shavings of my work will spatter and chip and form constellations on the surface, and every now and then I will clear everything away and lay my hands on the table, contemplating the blue slate that has absorbed the poor offerings to my genius.
I want to paint my room this hue, remove all the furniture, and sit in the middle of it, imagining myself adrift in space, because if space had color, if it were anything other than nothing punctuated by small bits of something, it would be this blue, so heavy it seems to have a pulse. And I would fly through my blue night sky, like I did when I was three, when the might of my mind overcame the weight of my body, when my body had less weight to overcome, as I closed my eyes and flew and was brave and conversed with monsters, and discovered they weren't so bad, or beat up the ones that were, and had adventures, ran from danger, charged straight at it, and in the end got the girl even though I didn't know why that was important yet. And I'd spin and drift and feel the wind in my hair (because blue space has air), and I'd have no limits because nobody had told me where they were.