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I cannot be entangled. The entangling of things will corrupt my spirit, I fear. It will render my hands to be as solid as the rocks I know I would become, and the newness (like the ripples in oceans) will be lost and bring its blaze with solid ice. My hands must move, move like children do in playgrounds. Boundless and free in their happy faces and carelessness. The world and all its loyal intrigueings are but orbits gravitating towards their clevers and whims. This is a good feeling. This is a feeling when aliveness has caressed its leggings through your bloodlines and brought out the better sides in you, where aything is possible, and in that reasoning…I keep my hands free, free as a child.
With that my mind must soar for a child does not care about his neighbor or what the times have crashed into his door, for he must always play, to grow. Play to bring new, and explore things with wide eyes. To create great artifacts from the soul, your hands and minds must play like children do. Children do not care for children have no rivals or concepts of others, and in lack of awarenesses they can be free and no one else more to copy in social olympics. They are in thus always new and growing, for the natural self is but an animal and never patterns in his behavior keeping fresh, and will flow as this from his inner core, never ceasing to adapt in self.
However it is hard to play when the eyes of the watchers follow and spite at your moves. When a rally of critics kick dirt on play fires. And in a child’s growings, his skin is still thin with emotions, and the world can rub much too hard, wasting waters cross the cities of dreams the child had created, and now lost, leaving only insecurity and fear.
A child is not free when he is conscious of fears. He is not free when he is always questioning. He grows scared and doesn’t like to play anymore. He moves just as the watchers so that the watchers won’t watch him. He doesn’t like to make new things that express the beatings in his heart. He has thus given up his own faith, and in that, been forced to grow up. The world now has no evidence of the uniqueness of his hand and mind. The world will never again trace the animal patterns of a child's gift to give and trust in self and build to the pools of beauty and humanity.
This cannot be the scenario for an artist, the ones who keep new to be only them and only an individual. For the ones who wish to use their hands to replicate the affirmations in their skulls, must always keep to be free as children, and neglect all who force outside pressures of judges and guilt. They must never grow up in their mind, for the ones who trek to adulthood only wish to compete and take and paint their faces different reflections fto humor others, never wishing to share outside their own sect, less for profits. They only wish to copy, as to catch gains and keep for their legacy. They lose sense of themselves for their senses are only tuned to everyone else, and in thus, weakened in spirit due to social trampling. Nothing new and revolutionary of self will thus be born like a child into the world, but instead, a new robot generated by just another old robot.
I refuse to think and maneuver my hands as an adult and lose the children in my veins. To lose the awareness of myself, and all that is around me. My eyes will never truly work right, and could become drawn to material powers and corruption otherwise. I will never again trust the ones who smile and give eyes. My colors will twine into the blacks and grays in my business suit and my face will never again shrine, me.
In order to survive, I must explore and taste in all. In order to have hands that move like rhythms and new, they must always be left to play in pools of freedoms and air. In order to always grow strong, I must keep true to my natural ways. To be, the greatest version of me, I must keep free, keep free as a child.
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