It would be difficult to say from where these come. Perhaps its not so much that they come but rather that they go. Because once they are realized it seems to leave a trail that says there was once magic and now if that process is complete we find ourselves looking at a product, which leaves a void. One to its creator, which bekons that he must do it again because there is no glory in its completion, as he now sees it, but the only thing glorious is the process it underwent and now speaks to him of it. So he sets out to find that place again, wherever it may be. And the other void is to the viewer, it must not be seen but rather felt, gloriuosly incomplete, so that as we stare into its depths we can project the quietude of our minds and therein find that the profundity of art ends not with the artist putting down his brushes but rather starts with his uninhibited audience. Completing his paintings with the meanderings of their own mind. Allowing them to be less his so that they may be more ours.
You know, it very well may have been what destroyed my stomach. Endoscopies, biopsies, and the awkward part I remember clearest, the plastic guard that keeps your mouth open for the tubes while your unconscious.
Too much fasting. Somehow I'd convinced myself that fasting increased my sense of flow, allowing me to paint from a place I didn't know existed before and would have rolled my eyes about in the past. It sounded too good to be true or too intense to be worthwhile...
As dark now as it seems
Im still here at sea
Never to be left alone, it is I
who drifts with thee
A whisper with a heavy tone
who somehow crossed the bow so completely
as to spill down upon me
It was not of the cold it wished to speak
but rather of the freedom I had found
A freedom that ran wild with fear
to him standing on shore
As here I am, standing no more
solving myself into the
secret whisper of the sea