artistic inclinations of the he(art)

the heart starts out with baby steps, one at a time. it pours out the crayons out of their box, pushing boundaries. scribbling in scrawny handwriting is childlike, laughable but an effort worth a kindergarten teacher’s praises. it draws of made up fantasies and childhood fairytales that always ended with happily ever after, simplistic lines and colours that only had one shade each. the lines were clear and its tiny hands are starting to memorize the feel of holding the power of creation.

colours faded to monotone drawing and sketches. lines become more complicated, with bends and curves that it tries to master. holding a pencil in its hand, it carves out the sights, sounds, sensations, transferring mind to matter. sometimes the lines smudge, the colours blend in with each other, gradient after gradient, yet somehow still manages to make sense. the heart knows no clear cut solution. it only knows how to make estimations, perfecting line after line, tracing ink over lead in numerous attempts to better itself. it only knows that it can try but it may never succeed.

the heart looks at the blank canvas in front, with a dripping paintbrush in hand. it is at a loss of how to continue. there are furious swishes hastily made, blotches staining the table and colours swirling in the water. art materials and references are strewn everywhere, the palette with little blobs of various shapes and shades. it lightly graces the canvas with another brush, leaving streaks and soft pastel colours. it could do this all day, but at the end of the day it will come to a realization that there was never a need for a canvas, it could transcend boundaries and think out of the box, explore places it never dared to before.

feelings are out of its artistic domain, yet its artistic inclination lean towards something, or rather, someone that it could never quite capture.


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