I’m good at picturing art. It takes a whole other form in my head.

I understand situations like I understand art, with a meaning that’s born inside my heart rather than the mashed words that leave your lips. It is as if the originality was lost on my ears as it makes its devastatingly slow journey to my neurons and is just as sluggishly fabricated anew. 

I observe like art, shapes squeezed in two dimensions, flapping around in the non-existent wind. Watching people gives me the same sense as knowing them in a way that I can only see the flat, unrealistically,  linear side of them; one I could not begin to fathom the depths off. My mind also has its own sick way of making itself the only three dimensional being in this packed yet lonely world; perhaps to retain its state of constant solitude or perhaps its survival instincts kicking in.

I sense objects like I sense art, with intensity that sends shivers down my spine; one that is undeniably imposing, for an object also consists of humans. And it always amazes me how someone with so much depth could be so detached from simple but still intricate,  mundane sensations like how it would feel to bury once face in another’s shoulder and smell the very scent of them while being free of any discomfiture.   

Living with the perception of art is the most beautiful gift of all but sometimes I wish I was blind.