It is my transformation; my listening companion. A frankenstein of my longings – I pour myself into the canvas, and the canvas holds it all. Shape after shape, glomming a combination of liquin and oil paint with a tiny brush, drop by drop. Constructing, hiding, and revealing, a cosmos of cities and flesh illuminated by a dark lighthouse. A compass I check for guidance, that points back to me, flooding the space occupied in front of the canvas, where I sit. It is a prayer and a plan, a hope and a failure. A former thing, that was a finished thing, and is emerging a new thing I don’t understand. Finished, destroyed, and rebirthed. Maybe now it’s dead, finished. Or maybe alive still.

The canvas becomes a wilderness space, revealing many paths that are not paths, and where they are leading I must follow in obedience.

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