Excerpt from "Tulley Thompson"

My thoughts are scrambled, with mis-perceived words, thoughts, ideas, emotions. But there is nothing i can do to fix that because the more i think about trying to fix it, the more i just keep thinking about those thoughts. there's no way to win. My mind is like a Jackson Pollock painting. Everywhere, just spread about with overlaying colors with this giant massive wall of emotions turned into paint that are flung and dripped on the canvas. The canvas is my mind and the paint my thoughts, feelings, everything I am. The colors contrasting and combining, are just like my thoughts fighting each other, trying to win what is somewhat of a pointless battle for truth. What really does make sense or seem right or at least the lesser of two evils. With different memories and thoughts intertwined together like the thin streams of paint that stretch across the giant canvas. Over laying each other and building up, until finally the paint is all used up and the canvas is dry. To some I'm a masterpiece, to others I make no sense at all. I just rely on the fact that some people find the beauty in his work, and hope that they can find the beauty in me as well.