deal
Opus
On dealing with the past
I have to convince myself that if on the morrow of creating a piece, that had been sent into production for the whole world to see, I could not find faults, my perception may still be distorted, my mood lingering over the minute joy of finishing it. For most people the past is a valuable asset simply because that past experiences reinforce their daily decisions: from some so frivolous like which suit to dress, to some of a magnitude. Artists, on the other hand, are not privileged to do so.
So deep and abysmal is the well of past, full of outdated emotions in a cold, parlous whirlpool. A straight dive into the well deprives my soul of thinking and acting like a normal soul — or in this context, a soul to be perceived as a normal one. So deep and abysmal is the well of past, that there is no chance of loitering around. The well of past is a pension prepared for morrows to come, for wishful thinkers to sternly stand.
The well of past holds everything, yet it yields nought; it is abysmal upon first sight, but unsurprisingly shallow.There is a home somewhere in the forests of streets; the voyagers the fallen leaves. There is a place where I feel at home, apart from the past, apart from the deep, deep well. There is a place where dreams prosper, where souls kiss each other night and morning. There is a place like so under the deep well, under the tranquil surface, the whirlpool of everyday detriti, the monsoonal caper of urban skulls.
There is an unanchored place where I secretly called home. It is a place I choose to believe in. These shades of tone so faint in my recent works are beacons calling for help from a random trespasser; voice deprived, the true meaning lies within.