I live in a constant state where my imagination far exceeds my talent, intellect, know how and ability to create and keep up with it.  I have no idea what I am doing or how I ever do it, not when I paint or draw or write or sculpt or... it's always a mystery and a wonder to watch.  Though being a somewhat helpless spector at times can be frustrating, it's the strange and dark pull and love towards tragedy and misery and beauty found in unlikely places that makes it impossible not to watch.  I am not who I think I am except when I am lost to the imagination of a dream of who I once was or might have been.  My name was lost long ago along with the first honey bee to sacrifice it's life to protect itself from harm.  I've been buried and born and loved and hated and dreamt and died all in the same moment and found and lost the secrets of life in a single breath that I never took.  And maybe one day I will be real if I can only manage to catch up to my imagination....