A Painting From Memory

You are you.

You are the keeper of pictures that are not painted anywhere else, for anyone else to see.

A memory, something so common can be so uniquely rare. It is a thought provoking realization; your memories are, among billions, completely and indisputably ONE of it’s utterly specific, exclusive kind.

The place where you are putting your life is filled endlessly with one hundred percent, genuinely unique data. The perspectives, all built upon memory. The emotions all trained by memory.

You are an individual, in an otherwise identical species.

These are the things constantly crammed inside you as you persist to exist. You don’t know you are, but it is happening RIGHT NOW; you are being assaulted with data to be evaluated and adapted to.

Taste.

That is what makes this relevant.

Smell.

This is an entrance to the memory’s prevalence.

Just like a memory; not everyone’s are savory.

Some are sweet, and that’s a real treat; you’ll meet some that get spicy.

Not all will be enticing.

Not all will be dicey.

Some will go nicely with humble pie with no icing.

Some will get pricey with stumbles trying desperately to be appetizing.

You faintly remember the makings of your energy.

The flaking of glimmering smiles of a family.

The pain sings past aching tastes; you yearn to taste from the past mistakes.

It takes you to a place.

Only yours, I am greatly sorry if I offended thee.

Why, feigning some mystery?!

This is my painting from memory!

It all begins with a canned salmon.

The Mother of the horde of Four Fists would mix it with her hands in.

And then some salt, pepper and some onion.

Start to have some fun then, depends on how she’d feel about how the crew’s day goes.

Then she’d peel and stew some potatoes.

Proper, with lots of pepper; hot like volcanoes, fanned with a mean bellows.

Cold canned beans for the fellows who’d like to beat the heat of the potatoes.

A spoonful of balance, incognito.

A roomful of happiness with the crappiest chalice.

Oh, I wish to paint those quaint patties!

A dish full of memories and not malice!

Missed, but I managed to fix in my palace.

Mind palace and my bowels.

Right to the plate with no hindrance.

The fate of remembrance is the taste of this paint.

Tastes like the concrete at a concert or the concerns on a first date.

The words that came too late.

Are all that fills the canvas or the plate.

Plan this for your sake; it’s time for you cook strewn memories of old throes, sorted clean and start to paint.

It’s time for me to eat what I paint.

It’s time for me to eat my stewed potatoes, pork and beans and salmon cakes!

There’s no time to waste in the mind; just the taste only you can find by Fartfist’s bloodline

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