INSPIRATION

GRASP

With spring delayed, she is caught in a perpetual state of unguided motion. She spends her days re-arranging furniture without direction; removing paintings from the wall, only to replace them again moments later. She stares out the window at the melting snow, willing the moon to pull back its white coat as it would an ocean tide, revealing its murky brown underbelly; mud replacing the jagged edges of ice. The house sparrows have begun to sense the change in the air, far sooner than the girl. They no longer sit perched near the heat escaping from the foundation of her home; their endless chatter no longer fills the silence of her days and has been replaced by the constant drip of icicles sacrificing themselves to the sun. She dreams of grass between her toes, dirt embedded under fingernails, and the smell of freshly scattered rain; things easily forgotten in the winter of her imprisonment. She is a wild beast, pulling at the tethers that are holding her in place. She fights the restraint; she no longer belongs here.

BALANCE

It was the way he looked at me. As if every one of my actions held him in an orbital spin and one quick movement could swiftly bring his world to collapse.

GAZE

Her actions alight to the tune of others gazes. If they are hateful or judging, she dances, with the clumsy desperation of a child reaching out for a better reflection in their parents eyes. All the time, she spins, tirelessly reaching out and letting time act as a metronome for her production. How she longs to collect instead, her favorite gazes. There is the gaze of the innocent, which quickly enables her to become the mother, the womb, the fixer of all things wrong with the world. The gaze of the open soul, which allows her to swim through sentences at leisure, ugly and imperfectly real. And, of course, the gaze of the lover, the one that allows her to set everything aflame. It is here that life becomes a place of unending beauty and exploration. The world loses its sepia colored hue and in it's place, everything takes on an entirely new spectrum of colors and characteristics. In this gaze, everything has a story and it is full-on movement and wonder. Her senses heighten; the tips of her fingers graze against surfaces as if reading Braille. She uses touch to read her world, cocooning herself into each new habitat, fingers lovingly intertwined with that of her lover. She longs for a ballad to compliment the quiet, and frequently jumps from one song to the next as her spirit sails along with every note and undulation. Instead of dancing her clumsy dance, she paints, she sings, she writes, she digs her soles into the dirt and greets the sun. Sometimes she wonders~ for which dance will I be remembered?

SHIFT

The seasons pass without mourning.. stealing away such critical moments, stolen glances, reverence in days that battled to stand apart from the rest. It discards the wilted, tempting eyes to shift past the barren opportunities of days forgotten to the still unknown simplicities of tomorrow. The allure of each new seasons mystery playing a leading role in the structure of our dreams. Vexed by a lack of ability to alter such harsh moments collected in the archives of our wrongdoings, we press toward a redefining moment, a future of scripted words, a perfected vengeance... plays better left to gods and screenwriters.. those with the ability to create paradise in existence. Are the smiles worth relinquishing to rid the scars from our minds? Is it fear that prevents us from embracing every piece of the puzzle? Silence allowing us to live through each season as a recreated being- a seasonal flower- a specimen untainted by the wind, the drought, the downpour? We remain blind to the totality of our lives and lay fixed in a collection of remembrances scattered mishappen through the years...