Conundrum

It's amazing what a picture is. A drawing from nature. I'm a little sick so I told some of grandpa's cough medicine to make the hurt seem a breeze. A picture is the same as the art we so casually glance at from whatever mural or painting or cliche artsy commercial we see. What is amazing about a picture is it is both a painting yet an anomaly. An artist can capture feeling in a picture but there are images within the picture that the artist can overlook, can be unaware of; because the image is a heartless scientific process that will occur every single time without hitch in the proper conditions. Because we have the least human interaction the most perfect image is formed, the man needs but to acquire the proper conditions of lighting and direction. And in that perfection one sees the truest image of the heart as man can see. Ultimately, it is an organization of the most close to perfect colors in the most perfect order to frame in reality, the same caricature of an oil pastel. Even the most perfect of pictures leaves an emptiness. Even the most perfect of pictures is not perfect. However the art is becomes is among the most perfect of art. It drives the expression of all the powerful emotions, good and bad. Fueling the most cruel of man's burdens, precitive knowlegde; what could have been. Feelings of the most perfect time.
It's almost like a dark ages. I have the capacity to do anything but I am cowardly and overly countering. This isn't the time for introspective reflection, Ifeel. I was content once in life. A liberating feeling of unlimited wealth. Complete satisfaction with achieving death at any moment. There is however a grave difference in pleading for death. I never have invited nor persuaded death to me. Nothing to be proud of or ashamed of I suppose. Perhaps I am missing out on a profound enlightening experience, or perhaps I have leapt over that stream of thought.