THOSE UNWRITTEN

I am not a painter.

But sometimes the brush feels lighter than the pen. Sometimes, you must let the words rest. Expression is never restricted to a single medium alone. Gone through the times when you want to say much, and you have the least words at the shore. Sometimes the words flow; sometimes they get tied up in their own meaning, gist and substance. Sometimes words aren’t enough. Sometimes saying is not enough. Sometimes you want to be heard, especially when you are quiet. Sometimes, it’s important to take time to be quiet.

It is a little complicated to explain a painting. It is difficult to unfold the imagination into words, and simplify those sentences for individual understanding. Although ekphrasis, the literature that describes visual art into words has been a good study, but that comes from the observer’s point of view and not the painter. I think it more or less kills the curiosity when you ask, rather than wait and look into it and draw your own idea. I believe painting should be treated that way. The zest is not in the tongue of the teller, but in the ear of the listener. So I leave it to you, observer. You may either like them or not find yourself in them at all.

 

Tied up in chaos.

Eyes shut and he was free.

 

 

Suffering was a description of his being.

His being that described suffering.    

 

 

Some come to become.

He became to be.    

 

 

It’s a secret between us.

A clandestine affair that we celebrate in longing.

 

 

Chaos is beautiful.

It lets you be all that you want to escape.

 

 

My fascination with it never ends.

Every time I look up, it begins.

 

 

Some inhibitions.

Stationed. Held back or just stood there.

 

 

Escape is home.

Mine a little farther.

 

 

Dream, long, grieve, love, live.

Who just looks through it.

 

 

Nothing stays forever.

They come they go. All the time.

 

 

 Like a dark memory of someone.

Who never existed but you remember they did.

 

 

 

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