Paint on canvas, chiseled rock, welded metal. I turn my back on it, it's power now gone.
The searing power of string, the throbbing collision of bass, the perfect moment between mismatched notes. Their majestic beauty killed by the muffling of my mind.
The word written by that more powerful than the sword, rhyming couplet, meaning in metaphor, beauty in simile. Close my eyes and it's no more than ink on wasted pulp.
The flicker of celluloid, the moment captured forever, symbiosis of the real and the un. The images limit the mind's endless hum. It's sixteen frames a second, scorned by my shun.
Ballet, Theatre, spectacle, dance. Spurned by a devastating but simple ignorance.
Art dies the moment I turn away, so what chance does it have, in a world that cannot see?
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