in a painted past
There’s something piercing, driving, distracting, probing, insisting. It’s pressing outward, shoving at the cocoon-like shell, begging to be let out, struggling toward freedom, yearning to spill out onto paper and suddenly exist. Existence, bright and beautiful. Stark ans shining. Brilliant
Ironic, actually. Currently dynamic, shifting, fluid. Once put down, still and finite. Once having come to life, no longer so alive. But immortal.
It begs to be defined, set down in lines and color and shapes and words and punctuation and paint and ink. Until then it’s spinning rabbit holes and ruby slippers and castles in the sky. It’s hunchbacks and wicked witches and lions and forests and dreams and nightmares and beauty and truth and lies and slights of hand, slights of mind, corners and crevices, tortuous and winding and swirling and spinning, melding together, separating, conjoining, breathing, feeling, feeding, consuming, spilling and splattering in all directions at once, but nowhere simultaneously. Begging to be defined, distinguished.