Awkward paraphrasing and bold lettering adorns the endless lengths of the empty canvas most people refer to as a crumbling wall. Fluorescent colours play contrast to the bland, bleak background of the birthplace of this beauty. Or vandalism, as some may call it, though I don't see the difference. 

There's nothing more beautiful than finding chaos in serenity, rebellion in the peace, or the repulse in attraction. And isn't this all that really is? An escape from elegance, where secrets are sprayed over the sprawling street walls to an audience of ants and discarded plastic bags. 

Maybe that's all the audience that was needed.

Say hello to the modern street artist. His spray cans have morphed into the smattering tap of fingers dancing across a keyboard. His canvas is as blank and vast as ever, though now it follows its addresses with the obligatory '.com'. He drains his mind and his heart for a few poetic scribbles to be scratched onto the surface of his computer screen for a new audience, one of more human capabilities than your regular plastic bag, but at times, less emotional capacity. All this with the knowledge that they'll only be forgotten by the next time his screen lights up, whitewashed with time and our natural instinct to forget.

Our thoughts are just memories to be painted over.


Anonymous | 1 April 2012 at 21:34

Your english is da bomb that my tongue got twisted a lot while reading it <3

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