Feelings are like mirrors. It trick us with our reflections. Emotions are like paintings, it is subject to one’s interpretation.
For the eye is not open when it is limited to the lightings in the mirror. And the wisdom to understand the paintings through the colors of one’s emotions is always on a standstill until someone told you it isn’t so.
But how can they refute the visible stroke of the brush that you see when you see someone’s masterpiece as not your own but a part of what you long for?
As the mirror spreads the light and the painting shows its colors, you gasped in awe how your face changes sometimes. Some days you see a youthful face, some days you see wrinkles. Never the same, but always changing.
Just as what Pablo Picasso once said: “Who sees the human face correctly, the photographer, the mirror or the painter?”
I know i’ll never know the answer. And i intend to keep it that way.
The sound it produce no matter how loud may end up like a whisper in an anime crowd. They say that when flags are unfurled, all the reason is in the trumpet. It’s like blowing your horn amidst all the thorns.
The anime that you see blown by your fantasy, the colors that bleed when you roll that bomb ass weed.
But a symphony orchestra is never complete if only the piano plays the music. The brass and the strings need to be heard, as willfully as that percussion that is screaming to sing. So when you blow your own horn and start trumpeting your voice, always remember that temper is like a weather.