Descend to the basement, revisit the essence of adolescence, all the chatterboxing and pests that keep, from a deep, sleep..
Dank is the asphalt, though
no fault of theirs. Follow the flow down the corridor, ceilings lined with a whispy wave of cotton- candy cobwebs, stretching across youth's bittersweet childhood, bringing it all back home.
Careful not to topple over the bundles of ***** laundry longing to be cleansed. Ascending heat coming up from the furnace re-igniting it's steady relentless flame burning, burning, burning, triggering the release of images of Hell etched in gray matter.
So much to excavate, refurbish, make new and golden. Cannot pave over lost innocence but attempt to rebuild from the core.
Underground porta, dark vessel, gallery of fine arts, molded from drops of sensitivity flooding the mind over time, with the tyrrany of exhaustion. The simple accusations of caring too much breaks the stride of fine tuned feelings. Manufacturing art thru self and self thru inspiration. Cold, yet still
a gentle emergence of reassurance, reminding what fear has molded, but the chill has made stronger. And what used to seem threatening has now become protective, as it is minimized by defending words and brush strokes on canvas.
From depths of self realization, dug out this underground gallery of feelings that line the walls of these highly sensitive people, working to exhaustion, carrying the tune, processing, absorbing the surrounding
turmoil to search for and harness peace and nurture whatever blooms from that crack in the floor of the cement.
We come thru the walls, thru the floors, thru ourselves and let the passion overwhelm us but never drain from us, what makes us, us. A Gallery upon what we have created out of forgiveness., de animabus sensitivo gallery, A Gallery of Sensitive Souls...
The beauty of art created underground during isolation felt during the pandemic