I don’t know

I don’t know how I do it but I feel the compulsive need to keep creating.
Do different. For arts sake. Political or otherwise; I am torn. I am art – not god.
You may identify me by the poor fingerpaints of my parents. Mix and smeared on a blank white sheet. This is my identity. A creation of only a most basic level of understanding. Comprehension and wonder.
Good or bad or just the same. Waxing the proprietorship; kunstlerroman -I am not referring to the frontierswoman. Aye me: spiritual learned, with much further afford yet. Bildungsroman by way of bilingualism, so closely are they intertwined.
And so I grow, enfilade be my option. Creativity and choice.
Options grow like the priesthood of the eternal imagination promised.
To transmute experience, so basic and normative into gold. All that shines godly, golden locks and more. Indeed all that shines. Radiant in body. Recorded, and living. Like the sparking well worn pages of some princely text. Ever-living as fame can only provide. Valid, nominal and received by all. Taken like a stable to both page and stomach. The basic fare, of food for all on the surface of the earth. Life’s staple, enough just to satisfy and make us question. Question all. Seek, learn and grow.
Our education begins with the mythscape created in language to form our own identity. The offset of god and how we are cast from the heavens above. We represent a bathyscaphe. Our individualism yet insubstantial.
The imperial construction in conversation, our eyes and common acceptance codify our point of view in our ever-brief search towards the unknown.

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