Ground Truths: A Love Letter by Anonymous


Dedicated to Aivaras 

   There's nothing like abstraction to acquaint the mind with the specifics of the soul. At least, that's what you teach me as you hang truth on our walls, hammering it in place with that glimmer of anxious determination in your eyes. As I lay on your side of the bed, I try to figure out where the drive comes from, but I already know-- you are cognizant of opportunity's value so I hop off the bed and the train of thought I board  has me examine the brevity of inspiration. 

  It only comes every so often-- you either run with it, or you run out.

Running with innovation wins, but it's no easy journey. The first seven miles wisp elegiac sketches past my window frame, but those are not the visions my oils have been missing. They want to shed the layers of guilt from three years ago off  demonstration's foundation and paint the hues of rapture crystallized in the rivers of your eyes.

    If you want it, change your perspective-- your background. 

Thankfully the foundation was latex and the oils never really dried. A clear cleansing of the glass panes will wipe the sketches away. I really want it to sparkle with clarity, but my fingers are a little weak and  I'm not sure if I have the right alcohol or swabs to clean it. My eyes gravitate to the photograph you hung on our wall, and I muster the strength needed to peel back the latex and attach canvas-- something my oily pigments can cling to. 

    Keep going, things don't happen over night

And they don't, but the will of drive comes in an instant, just like how we said:

    I had already fallen in love. I had to be with you

so in a way-- they do, and I'll keep mixing my oily tints until each new layer dries because your truth untamed my passion. I want to give you back your beauty so that maybe when your ardent waters become stagnant, I can stir its revelations.