It is hard to be born, to become whole. The artist tries forging symbols out of what may appear as the barest of subjects, churning seeds, eggs, anything to birth meaning from the stew of a world. In turn, she finds herself erecting graves, shaping tumuli, and marking the hearts of dead selves. The artist is wanting to show that the image is haunted, enshrined by its very own soul. In this way, every stone and small charm, these roughly precious things, comes together to collect in a center. It shapes an oval, a strange ellipse, and an ancient meaning unsheathes itself. When all forms are artifact, the poetics may unfold without end, but some mythologies are not so clear. I wonder, how far off is my aim?

The path of self discovery is not a paved street, smooth with fresh concrete, the smell of ripe tar and yellow marks glowing against the unforgiving blackness. There is always the chance of tripping and skinning your knee, the burning sting of scraped flesh imprinted with dirt and grime. Band aids don’t adhere immediately every time.

Occasionally identity shifts at the mere notion of a breeze yet sometimes stands strong, a dam against the influence of outside forces. I have come to the temporary conclusion of it being both a kaleidoscope and a rollercoaster, simultaneously on a track and at the whim of manipulation.

Yearning to capture the slick liquid response I try not to cower at possible self recognition or, worse, identification. Inevitable change and visage everlasting which cannot be seen, but is heard clearly by all. Permanence in a fleeting expression, categorization by an audience shrouded in societal expectations, impending unwanted nomenclature and exile to a box reeking metallic in spite of an intentionally benign first impression. Vacant places can be viewed without light, but if I had never embraced your burden would I still grieve you when you’ve gone? Faint static hums in the background where there remains a figure forever overexposed.

A chemically induced seatbelt restrains me, though slack creates the sensation of falling, release, vague memories of letting go and then being scooped up by professional whomever to be suffocated by good intentions. Adjust the setting, filters on the negative space increase the contrast between body and environment. Suffocation by frustration, foggy sleep-like state of being. I wait for the drop, push down on the floor beneath my feet to ensure I won’t simply float out of my seat into the sky.

A forum of voices question, hypothesize and curse the heavens, their luck, genetics, society in its entirety. Bias is the name of the game and bureaucracy enforces it. I reach for the other side only to be pushed back, pulled by uncertainty and failed attempts. I stop looking toward the future, resigned to confinement in the chains of myself. Avoiding the mirror in my room takes practice and I cower in the corner where I’ve been instructed to stay with unsightly flesh and cold feet. Rebellion obscured for apparently authority isn’t recognized anymore. Angry animalistic assertion. Air trapped in lungs as answers unfold, truths uncovered, lies disproven, and lessons learned.

Put it in colors and give me what you can. I understand some will be lost along the way, it’s natural to hide your hand. Place it in perspective because you can’t have hot without cold, only the absence of heat. Strike down and embrace fear, accept reality alongside the lack thereof. Complacency is a dirty word.

Clear varnish coats the surface. Glossy conclusion to a journey unceasing.