A lady of a certain age part IV

I am not a published author.

 

Nor do I intend to be. What follow are just sentences, strung together to make meaning of it all. A failed attempt to decipher what is in my head, in reality and in my dreams. These are just feelings that have been splattered on a page. For I am an artist using words, emotions, and experiences as my paint, flicking them carelessly on this canvas, hoping wherever the piece ends up, someone somewhere may take comfort in the piece of art. Perhaps it will be spotted by someone who is into modern art. Post modern. And that the dash of sadness that hit the bottom left hand corner, will be interpreted by a wealthy investor as a metaphor for the suffering of the windgarbee tribe in most Northern reaches of Africa or something like that and they shall so love the painting, they buy it and commission another. But see you that may not be possible. What follows may not be able to be followed. These words are my own agonies wrung out of my soul like a dirty dishcloth ready to be hung up. So forgive my weak metaphors and forced similes. I hope to inspire feeling not beauty.

Done