“The World is like the impression left by the telling of a story”.Hindu proverb

Yesterday was difficult. The harsh cosmic alignments forced me to the edge of my patience. There were times when I found it impossible to maintain my focus and the tasks at hand. I had to focus to ensure the flow of outputs. And I did.

Is that a good thing? Are we meant to maintain the status of expectations and reject the revolution within? What is our story? What is the beginning? Is it the first breath or is it the last confrontation between reality and of a life unfulfilled.

What constitutes the first chapter of our story? Is it the prologue the invitation to share the potential of our purpose? Then what is everything in between? Hot air or meaningless encounters – tick and flick of tasks and or appropriate responses?

Last night I dreamt the darkness of my fears. Butchered torsos scattered across landscapes layered in the sew-rage of human degradation entwined with the hostile breath of the perpetrator. Toxic bombs exploded on the horizon. Is this prophetic?

A diminutive girl slides across the ice while leopard tanks are poised at the innocent. Young men slide into oblivion a hypodermic fused into his veins pumping solace against the disillusionment of hypocrisy. What are their stories? What imprint will they leave on the world? Are we slaves to instant gratification or are we searching for something deeper and more fulfilling? Images flick past my consciousness reflections of another’s imagination carbon copies of a former talent. They permeate my reality. Is this it? Is this all we can expect of our creative verve? A packaged regurgitation served up for human consumption in the new millennium? Or do we color our grey existence with the crayons of our experiences?

Our lives are relevant. Each day we have a choice of sharing the essence of our spirit or otherwise leave an empty imprint on the world. Our story is meaningful. Each one of has left an impression whether this realization only emerges after death. In Greek mythology The Fool emerges from the cave. His sanguine attitude is refreshing. He travels light with the essentials of survival. He has a high regard for his existence as domestication has not demoralized his outlook. His veins are free from the tracks of disillusionment. His intention is pure and immature. So can we transcend our disappointment and return to the moment prior to the innocence busting? This moment which constitutes the prelude to the demarcation of the child and the threshold of the tortured adult?

How can we leave a brilliant thread in our tapestry when we have stomped the skeins of fortitude with puerile advances and experiences? Is our escape our final imprint? Can we change the DNA of this impression or is it embedded forever in the blueprint of our world?

Apollo, The Sun God seduces us with his lyre. The warmth of promise kisses our cheek and the celestial rouge spills into a smile.

Your End



Joined March 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

An ongoing dialogue between my inner and outer world.

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