This body of work is inherently greater than a feigned observation of the obscurities of a grievous nature, it is a cry from the depths of a earthen soul, a way for the awakening self to accept the finality of death; and, afterwards, provide a channel to empathetically transform those captivating emotions into a constructed creation. Long before my rubber boot bared down against the muddied banks of the uncharted river, this project trickled onto the pages of my first journal; here, I found an answer to a question not yet posed, projected in both visual and literary poetry.
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The tide crawls over the sediments, as “what-if” steadily become “what-is”; tiny fragments released, carried out into the unknown waters, where all matter eventually find rest, this is the anguish of the soul.
“The rain sounds like chatter of souls drifting to heaven…” – smeared ink
“…The tides of truth washing over crumbling sandcastles, leaving unrecognizable ruins…” – untitled.
“It is the union of both the object and its projection, (the real and reflected) that create the final product…” – Shore Party
“I awoke on Christmas to find that six can be cut to two in a matter of three days…” – Untitled
Here lies the truth,
here lies the end,
hiding amidst the bank of a frigid stream.
Her voice calls with each fall of the frothed crest
Waves sending whispers to those who desire a final passage.
What, then, am I doing here?
Within me, still, is the spark of the sun
And yet, I stand
Holding a ceremonial urn
Filled with feelings purged by heaven’s fire.