A portal to my imagination
Luring me through the threshold of my own thought.
Sometimes grasping me, seducing me,
staring directly into my eyes and
screaming a sensation.
Not just paint on a substrate,
but a compilation of marks
charged by human intent.
With the ability to reveal whatever persona I declare
reflecting an image of my own projection.
The language of color, line, and texture.
Spoken so clearly to me
though she has translated something else
and he hasn’t bothered to listen.
This flat universe was born by
a pursuit of interest.
The preservation of a thought moment
capturing what it means to be human.
If you were able to separate
viewing it as a single point
that point would be called art.
The painting on my wall is art.
Mostly in a state of existential crisis, wrapped up in my own mind and in the thoughts that weigh heavy through cyclical depression. Thoughts consisting of anxiety and unhappiness about school, society, humanity, the world, the waste, the ignorance, and my own inner conflicts of knowledge and memory cause constant yearning to exist in a more positive and productive state. My writing through this time has reflected the tendencies I have to think too much, my resolution being through doing art and through connecting with nature. My writing process is usually different every time. Sometimes by compiling small phrases I’ve jotted down in my notes, other times by writing stream of consciousness, and others are more about what word sounds intrigue me. I have found that my writing reads best when I utilize all of these tactics together.