but I think even now what you paint or draw or whatever has to be pretty

sushi-sunday:

Every street has a house filled with filth,

And sad sorry grit has touched the whole world

We’ve all known hell, a raging inner forest fire or a small flame that scaled our hand for a split second –

We have all lived,

Human beings have all lived, each of us is born into a world so beautiful wonderful blossoming blooming like a springtime garden, so sad pitiless aimless. Theft rape and murder are real.

We are living this –

It is only in your halls, on your walls where you claim you want beauty –

Out of all of the variations of life, of every shade that we have, why beauty? Why pick beauty?

The art and the literature that reflects the world has no time for your selections, do you want us to live like this? Fed from your medicine drip? Living off your 500-calorie-diet, and starving?

Denying the fact that the eleven year old girl whose mother lies prone on a stained and torn sofa each night by an overflowing ashtray has ever seen a bottle of alcohol

is futile, don’t pretend.

Because if I – who I am blessed by chance to be worlds luckier than that girl – feel like my reality is being denied, the world that I live in is not represented the way it ought

Then how must she feel walking your halls, reading your floral poetry and staring at your delicate paintings, devoid of more than half of the things that build our world?

She’ll have to rip out her soul to get in, idealise herself beyond recognition so that she fits your motivational slogans and is no longer real.

We don’t want reflections of beauty, but life.