That Face you Show

​That face you show 
I believe you can reach up and put your hands into a river that circles the earth and touch the creative flow as it spirals through this place we call Alive.  That color, words and sound are right here, bright drops dangling waiting to have a purpose. Absolutely everyone has access. You need only take the time to still your mind and experience the reality of it. And if you do, you can do something amazing.
That is my bright shiny side speaking, the romantic optimistic me I aspire to be. That face you show. I believe everything I just wrote and I believe my purpose in life is to make and experience art.  I want to be transformed and to be transformational.
Then there is the other me. 
The dark, moody, and reclusive one. Her moto is “Burn it down” She is a realist.  Ever asking the question “why are you doing this when there are so many others who are better, more expressive, more dedicated to their craft” STOP………. Just stop.
Between the dark and the bright one I stand and paint hoping to find with work, practice and a bit of luck something that is true. Because I understand one thing about myself.  I must paint.  Whether anyone else is watching or listening. 
I LOVE Shelley, I have all his work, several times over, and I often carry his poems with me.  I cannot exactly explain the affect his words have on me, how they reach into my heart, soul and head all at the same time.  Every exquisite line paints a picture in my head.  I want to end this latest post with his poem Ozymandias because it always resonates with me which ever face I am wearing.
Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.