with concentration, I paint the outline. clear. symmetrical. perfectly positioned, lines well spaced, objects located just so.
with all the energy flowing from heart to mind to hand, i spill ink in little droplets, unconditionally, unstopped.
with all the energy flowing from heart to mind to hand, i spill ink in little droplets, unconditionally, unstopped.
the liquid oozes out of the bottle. vibrant flecks of helpless loner spots scattered further away, wondering whether their neighbourhood will be populated soon, or whether they must stand proud of their independence.
i smear backhand for my skin to be part of the feast. i try to get in it.
flowing down right and up again, i resemble a brush, skillfully precise but ultimately unintentional. precalculated chance and i'm willing to risk it.
the paper is soaked and so are my feet. i'm extending my area as far as i can reach. i want more of it to be mine. i want more of it to belong to me. i want more of it to make sense. i want more of it i want more of it.
turning the other way now, my choice for dark ink is not a mistake. two opposing parts in everything. the yin side will have to compete with the yang, a non-confrontational but very pragmatic battle of balance.
frantic aggressive lines. parallel to each other, parallel to my heart. everything broken and fucked and distorted. everything alien and not part of me at all.
armed robberies of happiness and tranquility, storming the field and earning my trust. quickly, i become them. quickly i abandon it all.
tear the page, stand on it. my feet are covered in colour and sadness.
this is why i don't paint. and this is why i shouldn't love.
