I accept you as my friend, I recognize you only as the enemy. I am not unaware, you see I know better than you think. There is a 'deeper magic' as in the story, that does not change or go away.
You wonder why you return again. You think you've got it all under control, you have lots of 'friends', you have your lover too. You are safe. So you think. So you pretend.
Yet you recognize, as do I, that you "don't paint anymore" You only become alive under that stare, when you know there is recognition, that is when your art is born. Otherwise, it is stagnate, it is watered down, the colors are not as vibrant, the beauty doesn't come from joy. Even if you try, what is produced lacks the potency, talent is never lost, but it can be lacking.
I am an artist, I know true beauty, I know the strong and resounding poetry. I understand what's missing, but I won't let you steal my pleasure. I am happy in my moment, I ask you to stay content in yours. Do not chose to cross that border, for that 'deep magic' requires blood to appease it. Death is not pretty-no matter how it comes, or who it comes to.
Eventhough the recognition of true beauty brings out in me a weakness towards fighting, and a willingness to just give it over, I will make every effort to rally my greatest streangth and defend what I now call my own.
Realize what I know, admit your loss, now, relinquish hold friendly foe, relinquish hold.
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