I am no Michelangelo but I saw the angel trapped inside the rock. I felt his thoughts, so material, pulling me away from my own while he was there, tapping his surreal fingers and waiting for me to uncage him from eternity. He had a mean spark in his gaze and I swear I saw him rolling his eyes with divine boredom and disappointment. Like he was tired of waiting for me to mess up.
[You can totally skip this part where I tell you what art is and what it is not.
Art is obsession.
Art is either unwanted or unexpected.
Art is the kind of vision that could get you mistaken for crazy.
Art is struggle.
Art is your most sincere form of expression.
Art is the proof you belong in this world.
Art is not something you can produce by will only.]
After one too many glasses of wine and bad dreams I took another look at the rock and I learned that my angel was not so angelic anymore. He was just some post-teenager with a wild imagination and really weird furniture around him. Everything about this boy was so intensely young that he made me think about the floppy disk era. He knew exactly how funny that was and he smiled. And I knew what it would take to set him free from that fake rock of his: