That I’ve yet to be disfigured by burns, amputations, deformities, obesity, or acne. That I seem to be smarter than average. That I’m Korean and not Chinese or Vietnamese or Hmong. That from time to time I am temporarily believed to possess something along the lines of outer beauty. A short excerpt from a long list populated by gifts I’m grateful for but shouldn’t be, per se.
If I could write you a story it would be a thousand page tome about a tragic misunderstanding and its ever increasingly heartbreaking repercussions, and as the characters mourned and grieved you would mourn and grieve too and something deep in your soul would shatter like glass, and all the built up swept under frustrations and hurts of your life would come crashing through the front door as if for the first time and just when you thought you couldn’t take it any longer, the final chapter would gently reach out and graze your downturned chin, take up your weary hand, as tenderly as if it were not your hand but your heart, and lead you to an old but still young on the inside denouement that would restore your faith in the world, almost making the painful emotional investment of a book worthwhile. Almost. But not. So then you’d make your enemies read it so they’d suffer like you suffered.
Artists are given freer reign when it comes to way of life. Less restrictions. Has recently come to my attention that all artists are riddled with any number of mental problems. I’m an artist. Cut off my hands/arms/feet/eyes (but please don’t) and I’d still be an artist. The commonality is the mental problems. I want wanted to change the world. But I don’t quite. Care.
Why do you love me though my heart is this black.
WYSINWYG 