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I Am The Architect.

{via Tumblr}

{Photo via Tumblr}

 

 

I am an artist,

an architect of the imagination.

With broad strokes and bold designs

I choose the color,

the angle and just the right light

at which my life is

viewed.

 

If the tones don’t suit me,

I’ll choose another.

If the temple of my life

doesn’t match

the beauty in my mind,

I add, subtract,

I build up and tear down

until the glow can radiate

through the cracks

from the inside out.

 

I am an artist,

the architect of my imagination.

I alone know the blueprints

from which I work,

if there are blueprints.

The temple I erect to house

my holy life is organic,

erratic, completely unplanned,

allowing me the freedom

to add until the piece, the color, the tile,

feels just right.

 

I am a Winchester Mansion,

a forever work-in-progress.

I am nothing more nor nothing less

than a monument to my own existence

and the ghosts of those who came before me.

I am flawed and frayed,

cobbled together from their scraps

to create something more than I once was.

I am purposefully and accidentally built

with the intention of finding not perfection,

but a reflection of what I wish

to leave for the next soul

when I’m gone.

 

My life is a work of art,

and architectural miracle!

Some walls may fail to hold,

yet the patterns formed

when they fall is worthy of a frame.

Paint runs together

creating swirls and eddies of color.

Some are muddy,

some almost neon in their brilliance,

But all are mine – so much me.

 

This body that refuses

to follow the rules and plans in my head

knows itself better than my vision.

So I adjust accordingly,

to once more find the cathedral

among the rubble.

 

This body may not appear perfect,

unblemished, unbroken, unbound,

but if you step twice back

and to the left when the sun rises

and the clouds are just right,

you’ll see it as I do;

a work of art.

A church worthy of worshiping

the grand beauty of that which is life,

both mine and all other.

 

This form is a carnival,

a funhouse, a madhouse

and everything in between!

It holds cemeteries of lost dreams

and birthing huts filled with the new.

It encompasses the thoughts

too big to describe in words

and the fears too wild to be trapped,

Like mustangs breaking free

from their pens.

In every cell,

of every part,

I hold the universe

in all its awe-inducing glory!

 

Mine may not be the painting

you choose to hang on your wall,

or place on your shelf,

and for that very reason,

my soul continues to sing.

Because art is subjective – reflective,

And mine must live

and breathe

and grow,

For it wishes to remain alive,

Not withering under the dust

and shadows of a static existence.

 

On those days

when it’s hard to see the beauty in my life,

I must remind myself to remember —

I’m not looking

with the right set of eyes.

Because I am an artist

and an architect of my imagination

and I alone choose when and where

My work is done.

 

*****

ChrisDeanChris Dean writes at pixie.c.d., where she shares acts of stupidity, life with adult offspring, and advocates for chronic illness and mental health awareness. Her work has appeared on Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, In The Powder Room, Bonbon Break, Midlife Boulevard, The Mid and as a contributing author to Clash of the Couples and It’s Really 10 Months: Special Delivery (coming Labor Day 2015).

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