Who are you? I didn't paint you, yet the brush is in my hand. I couldn't warn you, and now it's too late.
Born from flesh. Exist as flesh. Make no mark. Gone. Nothing remains.
The cherry blossoms are a thing to be celebrated with family and friends and food and laughter, and yet, I think I want to be alone this year. I want to sit and sip beneath the trees in reverent silence and let myself see only what She wants me to see.
The doctor scribbled away on his clipboard: anxiety, mental health unstable, irritable, illogical, blah blah blah... Prescription: placebo.
Sensory overload, but it feels incredible. I can see everything and I can hear all. Colours bloom intermittently and unceasingly and instantly. Music sounds and resounds at a speed with which no sound and all sound can be heard.
The painting is splattered in deep colours—black, red, grey—that appear to struggle fruitlessly against the stark white canvas.
The wind whistles past the deep purple flowers, complimenting their silent visual music.