Initially I was hurt, disturbed and a little put off.
You see, I write for myself and if someone else likes it, great. If they don't, I don't give a F"#ck.
But it did mess with me a little, gotta be honest.
Then I realized that there are two types of people in this world.
There are those that that can see the true deepness and beauty in things:
They can look at a painting and get emotional. They look at the whole thing. They see the artist slaving away to make a minute , a second of difference in someone's life.
They can watch a movie and walk out of the theater a little messed up, wandering, thinking about the characters, delving into the psyche of the whole thing, unable to sleep at the deepness of what the movie just brought to their lives.
Or they read a book and it effects them deeply. They reread it. They think about what the author was trying to convey, they feel it all, they make it part of themselves. They laugh and cry and carry the book to others so that they may feel something of what they felt.
They hear music and it takes them somewhere. A place, a feeling. A girl, a guy, a lonely walk on a desolate road.
I am glad to be this type of person. If I read a passage of a book to you and we cry together, you are my type of person.
Cry? Yep, squat 820 and Hemingway's beautiful prose messes me all up inside. I love it. Huke Green's Music gets me all teary eyed. And I love it. And I love to fight also. Great. Kiss my ass.
Then there are others who see life in a straight line, a cut and dried boring place where art is an afterthought and beauty is a Cosmo cover.
They think that material things mean that you are a success.
They don't understand the love of dogs or the oneness of being alone in the wilderness.
They think that reading and writing is a waste of time.
And they chuckle at poetry.
And they chuckle at poetry.
I'll stick with my kind any day.
