Melancholic tendencies towards minimalism

This life is borrowed
And so is this body
I am reminded of this, after a happy bright day that ends in weariness
My eyes ache and my sinusitis flares up
The discomfort mars my joyous mood and I become a little downcast

I must rest now
But first, I make some art
Nothing like despondency to get me drawing and sketching

I am back to the delicate lines that nobody comprehends
But Peter told me I should not change
And this he said without seeing the work- He knew from my words that this is my passion
The passion that does not conform

So now, the art is getting worse
The lines are thinner, the page more bare
No colour or pomp

I do less
For I need to think more and dream more
Not in images and figures
But in simple strokes

Like the true Artist who makes no Art for he is Art
Thus, my lines fade...

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