When I take my glasses off, the world immediately dissolves into suggestions of forms. And at night, before bed, if I gaze into the darkness, it pixellates. My painter eyes grasp for shades of purply orange brown, trying to assign a shape to the flash of the smoke detector. But the vision without aid can’t form one. It’s mark is too fleeting.
All of our moments are fleeting, changing every nanosecond into something new. I wonder if that’s why I am so enamored with recreating my moments in painting form. Coaxing them from nothingness, arranging pigments into lines and dots, feeling as if, in this way, I don’t really lose them to the ether of memory. That if I trap them, they won’t disperse into the void of spacetime until they are too scattered to be recognized. Clearly a fool’s errand in the end, but an entrancing process nonetheless.