Silent poetry

Painting is silent poetry.
I survived the return to school. It wasn't much anyway. We didn't have half of the classes. I'm attending a new class now, sociology. It's... meh. The whole school day was just meh, but when I went home things got interesting. ^^

I saw an artist on the street selling oil paintings and graphic sketches. She was your typical starving gipsy artist. But the woman was so kind and patient, I can't describe it. When people (me among them) bugged her with stupid questions, she just explained everything patiently. It was a really pleasant talk.

She explained about the art industry and copyrights, how she has a colleague that paints with oil and the two collaborate and she sells his works while drawing with charcoal. Unfortunately, she's not very good with portraits, and regrets it. But I think she draws landscapes pretty nicely.

I was tempted to buy a painting (or two) because they're actually pretty cheap. But what would I do with it? None of the rooms in my flat are coluourful or pretty enough to house such beautiful paintings. You can't have a classy painting in a flat with a completely different style. I don't even think my parents arranged the rooms with style, just used whatever they had. Of course, from the moment I saw the paintings I drifted of to my little fluffy world where i can daydream of the beautiful house out in the country. But it's just a dream for now.

The horrible truth.

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