the triangle

Recycled ideas.

We are all sifting through the rubbish bin of life. Beggars desperately searching for scraps of hope. We will cling to anything – anything - remotely implying possibility. Or success. We are all waiting for brilliance to crawl into our hand so we can tightly close our fingers around it. Claim it! Patent it as yours, mine. A thing which I created.

It's all about ideas. So many ideas! I must, I must create creativity! Ideas: How I think and how I arrange the words and the full stops and the lines, the paragraphs the spaces. Writing is architecture. Curves and structures, arcs and phrases, colours. It’s all colours. Shapes. Composition. How I see things. I AM THE ARTIST: Arranging and articulating in a way which is mine. How can I take this recycled notion, which has passed through the lips of so many other writers, rested in the creases of a thousand hands, and prove that its formation in my head was different? Narrator.. I am: Creator, writer, dictator, fabricator; revealer of truth.

Spat out, stuck to the sides - these ideas are most common. Small and discoloured. They refuse to move and cannot be reshaped. They are firm and they are not malleable. But they are there, quietly inconspicuous in their existence. These ideas are found time and time again, variations on mediocrity. They are the most unattractive of ideas. They get in the way and stick to your skin so you can't move. Rigid, regurgitated words, unoriginal in form and in theme. These ideas are not brilliance. They have no lustre. No, they epitomise average.

Occasionally I will produce chewing gum ideas. The worst part is once you have touched them they remain stuck to you. They once tasted beautiful. Sugar coated and brightly sweet, staining the tongue with bright words. Ink in the mouth: This is how I see my ideas. I taste them on my tongue. I feel them brushing my lips. And I do love them. They are incredibly gentle. Whisperings.

But once they have been chewed for some time they are no longer so appealing. Their taste becomes bland and dull. They are discarded on the sidewalks of pages and hidden in the margins. I cross them out, wrap them up, hide them, edit them. They are strange versions of themselves once I have finished with them. I will still claim them as mine although in reality tediousness owns them.

Recycling: The picture has three parts. A triangle. It consists of thought, writer and the page. The origin, the medium and the canvas. For it is a canvas on which I draw my words. And I am an artist.