Lebbeus Wood. (via the-rx)
What I mean by ‘line’ is exactly that: a single mark, short or long, drawn with a pen, pencil, stylus, or any sharply pointed instrument that is held in the hand and commanded by it, in coordination with the brain, to inscribe on paper, tablet, plate, or any chosen surface exactly that mark and not another.
This last qualification is important. When rubbing a piece of charcoal, pastel, or blunt pencil on a surface, one accepts (even hopes for) a certain degree of approximation, even of accident. The resulting tone is, from an analytical point of view, vague, when compared with line. Line is precise and unequivocal. It is here, not there. Making a line is not about accidents. Rather, it is about contour, edge, shape. It is about where one space begins and another ends. It can be spontaneous or studiously deliberate, but it always carves space in a decisive way. It has a clear ethical, as well as aesthetic, impact. The drawn line is one of the great human inventions, and it is available to all of us, a tool both common and esoteric, personal and universal.
So tell me when you hear my heart stop, you’re the only one that knows.
Tell me when you hear my silence, there’s a possibility I wouldn’t know.
So tell me when my sigh’s over, you’re the reason why I’m closed.
Tell me when you hear me falling, there’s a possibility it wouldn’t show.
You always found the soul that was lost out of me,
while i struggle in murky denial and yearn for some comfort to earn.
I’ve learnt that there’s no never too late,
meals that are left cold on the table for too long will never taste the same
until you heat up them again.
Tonight, last night i was served with laughter and eagerness,
but i was swallowed in self sympathy and been burning bridges.
But i will keep on working, because there is still a chance for me to pay,
for i believe in myself and your belief in me.