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It's the voice that whispers under your skin, in words that aren't words and pictures that have no place outside the flow of your blood. It's a gift, to be able to create art, to consider it, to see outside now and into maybe, it's a beautiful thing to be lost in, the impossible curves of your thoughts that can't be translated into anything.
It's impossible to say it right, to get across what you can see. You can't describe the depth of the pain in their eyes, or draw the beauty of a dragon in flight. You can never get it quite right, quite perfect, and that aches under the skin in the depths of your soul. You can't help trying to make it, drawing the curves and the straight lines or carefully plucking the strings of the harp, looking for the melody that only your soul can sing.
Perhaps it is why people pray, when there is no certainty of their truth outside their faith. They're looking outside for what can only be found in themselves, that perfection that is right there, the words on the tip of your tongue that are never quite right.
You can feel it, can't you? The rightness that is just out of reach? It's why you carve it down until nothing is left, looking for the perfection that is mortally impossible. It is utterest agony to dig that deep inside and then find it still isn't quite right, but... what else is there to do? It wants to make it's way out, even if sometimes it feels like you're peeling yourself apart to do so, peeling it out bodily and then cleaning off the blood and muck. It never does clean away though, not entirely, and when you try you find there's nothing left. No dirt, no muck, no beauty.
Eventually you learn how to clean away as much as you can, so some of it can shine through, but you leave the muck there so there's something to hold onto, something to hold it down and keep it here.
But it still hurts to see all the imperfections that don't scrub away. It always hurts. But it's worth it, isn't it?
Please tell me it's worth it.