the rain raps at the window.
a blur of sensation raps
in the corner of my eye.
i take my journal from its sleeping position on the bookshelf and bring it to the floor. i open up a blank page. i stare at it. it glares back at me. blankly. bluntly. where have you been all this time? it begs. i keep my lips pursed. where have you been? it persists. i don’t want to share. not with words, anyway. i just want to lose myself inside the whiteness of the empty page. it seems so… noncommittal.
the white space whispers, fill me. i reach for my oil paints. i open every tube. i have no plan. i squeeze color from the tube onto the white space. i grab a pencil and thrust it, eraser side down, into the color, swirling a path of rainbows. sarah brightman is chanting from the speakers. i hum to her voice. i abandon the pencil.
i hum as i plunge my fingers into the puddles of french blue. royal purple. peacock green. tuscan rose. i hum. my fingers are tarnished with carnage. genesis. surrender.
i zoom into the viscerality of the moment… and zoom out.
what is this thing i have created? how was it born?
it was born of navigating the turbulent waters of inner world… solitarily. it was born of convolution. it was born of… unintention. yes! unintention births the purist expression. unintention births the inner truths that rise from the embers of avoidance. denial. marginalization.
i stare at my creation. i stare… for a long time.
the paint in the journal dries… as does the paint on my fingers.
dries, too,
the rain.
