the journal/the opener

this is not the definitive journal, nor is this the extent of the media. this is you, the reader, engaging with a kind of mask that you see only through one of your own. this will not so much help you understand me directly, as it will help you understand the mask from which i write directly behind. all writers and actors and painters and journalers conceed to hide behind their work...maybe not so much conceeding to as being forced into disguise by the medium they choose. how can a verse convey the extent of the depth of a colour, and how can that colour show even a part of our soul? how can the pen, the easel, or the stage, contain the mind, no matter how desperately the mind tries to be understood. every word, every colour, every thought is only a guide to the mask, behind which i am forced to hide, despite how desperately i try to place myself onto these pages. art is only a guide to a mask, which is only a guide to the mind, which is only a guide to the soul. art can be everything.

sometimes, however, art gives you a glance, maybe only a glance, directly at the soul. it is times like this that the writer, the actor, the painter, and the journaler succeed. maybe the work exposes their hands, their face, or their eyes, but for whatever reason, the mask slips exposing, for only a second, someone desperately trying to be understood.

i hope i can give you a glance...