There’s the scuttle of my kitten’s impossibly small paws across the taut leather of my sofa. The quiet pelt of informal rain on the windows in my apartment. The scurry of my wine-veined fingers as they fly across the keyboard. It has been so long since I felt like I could write, and maybe I can’t even if I wish I could.

Autumn came and went with every beautiful consequence. Full of discovery and newness and frustration and confusion- all in myself and my love and my family and my work. In this Winter I unearth the reality of new medication. That it cushions some of the rawness that creates such perfect melancholy, a divine canvas for writing. A silkscreen page rubbed blunt so that ink seeps inwards.

It also gives light and whimsy, the things that show through a new facet of creativity. In my artwork lies the side of my brain that rested dormant for a while, allowing the dark to make its lengthy debut. Both exist together, one overpowers the other. Only one seems to be able to represent well at a time.

For now.

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