Archival paper, soft pastel, graphite
35.5 x 30 in
Time slows when you enter a void.
Whether of your own doing,
Or having them thrust upon a life.
Recalling a void appears as a blip.
As if the years spent in solitude merged and compiled on top of one another into a single yesterday.
Yesterday I was five years old, reaching for my mother's hand.
Yesterday you were twenty, reaching for a false future.
Yesterday I am thirty, reaching for anything.
I’ve given up trying to predict these moments of black. Trying to gauge how and when to move.
They operate on their own, aiming straight-for passed me.
Victims to their graze and the imprints that they leave.
Tempted to plunge into the darkness.
Or is it the light?