In life, experience is cut up into little narratives neatly divided, sliced and placed in their correspondingly chronological order. But no matter how many times you've gone through the pattern each beginning and ending never gets easier. Partly because every journey is an outlandish step forward that's entirely new. There's nothing more paradoxically intimidating and exciting as a blank canvas. There's an undeniable weight of responsibility to yourself, to navigate through the unknown and design a life that's desirable. But diving into whiteness like stretching light, blinding and insufferable, makes it difficult to not make mistakes; the canvas gets messy, tainted and rumpled. It's no wonder we change even while trying to keep the foundation of who we are intact. We get lost within the unyielding brushstrokes of our work, overlapping and blending, ultimately blurring definitive lines and boundaries until we're thickly layered into a beautifully complicated myriad of selves. Shifting, flowing, melting into each other, life takes up colorful shapes. And I can only lean enviously, with soggy desire, against neighboring boundaries of canvases curved, oval and cleaner than mine.
Spinning and tossing into infinite space like light too bright or silence too long- this is the nature of my multicolored, fluttering madness.
