a moment.

Here is a curious moments bidding shadows and washes of thick fiery colors, antiquated trinkets from centuries long gone, and a relish for the absurdities and wild complexities of the human soul . Fingers pale and lucid unfold in a curve of winding burnt light. I contemplate intimacy, vulnerability, decay, and how to lend new forms to pain and repulsion. My interior being thrives on certain moments of solitude where dreams and imagination twist and expand into new meanings and points of view. My inner life begins to crumble when my outer self isn’t the rich enigmatic force I want it to be. This is the nature of art, a constant battle with the expectations of the imagination. Beautiful material objects and the art of self decorum cause me to pine and languish with desire.

Brushing up the concept of intimacy I grow intrepid, longing, and vaguely disgusted. Moments seeming to be a result of divine grace are what I desire. The fear and rejection of imperfection would transform into deeper closeness, the sharing of deep seated dreams, memories, and longings. The absurd would become a point of laughter, an invitation into the thrilling, dark, and childlike realm of the Fay. Wrinkles, stains, dissatisfaction must compel and open new possibilities, dark corners of madness. Accepting mystery; the humility to realize we may always be in the dark in some manner of speaking. May I always value you, oh darkness.