Hmmm, random.
One of my favorite paintings (I don't even like the rest of this artist's stuff lolol) with some prose or whatever that it made me think.
And then, there is the aloneness, the solitude, the inner isolation, tempered only by temporary moments of appreciation of physical things, of bare feet in summer and sunsets over water and the smell of cedar trees. The dull ache that never leaves, the invisible string attached at one end to your heart and at the other end to the Unknown. There is sitting in a corner of an empty room, knees drawn up to chin, pensively contemplating why it is that you alone are lacking the skin that covers everyone else, why you alone would prefer to live without company because the company that exists is trivial at best. Broken, disjointed, fragmented. Alienated from the world around you by yourself, unable to connect, to relate, to live. Seeing a rusted train track, an abandoned home, a boarded-up church with graffiti on its outer walls, and finding parts of yourself in those things. Immediately losing those parts because you lack clearly definable skin, and they fall out. Hurt. Failure to comprehend. Unstable stability.
But then, suddenly, another one, another person, another one who looks like you. And there is understanding, and there is calm, and there is a tree pushing up through the layers of ash that have blanketed and killed everything else. More hurt, but this time it heals; this time it heals. Nothing more is meaningless; nothing more is torn. There is mending and fusion as you slowly, together, learn how to fit, how to reach out. The Unknown is at once no longer unknown; it is this person, this being of intense fragility whose life gives you life and whose mind and will are nourished by yours. Love.
Composing about 5% of a tl;dr Facebook note written May 29. I'm bored enough to read all the ones I wrote over the summer.
I just really, really adore that painting and was reminded of that fact because I'm reading everything.
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