There’s no doubt about me, I’m a hoary old cynic.
Well not entirely. I don’t sneer and faultfind and deny the goodness of human motives as the dictionary says I must to be true blue about it, but I’m not as innocent and trusting as I might have been…oh, say 60 years ago? I don’t necessarily believe that the world is rose petals and fairy floss or that lying, cheating bastards don’t sometimes win. Quite often win.
So when I look at today’s responses to paint, I feel…old. And cynical.
I could pretend, of course. I could dig through the verbal canvases of my youth (if I still had them) and come up with something aglow with the rosiness of young love or bright with sparkle of optimism and post that.
They’d more likely be loaded with the verbal equivalent of mucky sludge passing for existential despair. I painted a lot of existential despair back then. Except that now I realise it wasn’t existential at all, but more circumstantial. Perhaps it always is.
Anyway, the upshot is that having looked at the responses to today’s prompt, I don’t feel I have anything to contribute: no adventures with the real stuff, no deep and meaningful insights into its metaphorical brilliance.
Such is life.