I remember sitting in those white rooms where they
send you to clear your mind. I’m not sure whose idea it was that this was a
smart way to deal with Children. I mean what could be more exciting than
watching paint dry?
I
stared at the walls until my eyes ached. I got so board I used to paint them in
my mind. Till they ran with colour. Then the fantasy just wasn’t enough.
It
turns out that watching paint dry is actually pretty fucking exciting. When
it’s your paint smuggled in under a pile of homework. When you’re stepping back
from the wall and your brush is dripping red like a bloody knife in your hand.
Then it’s fucking awesome!
They
put me in isolation for a week after that. But it didn’t matter what it is. It
didn’t matter.
I’d
made a mark. I wanted to do more.
It
doesn’t matter what mark you make. Only that the Mark is yours alone.
A
great man told me that. He made his mark on me.
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