The drawings I see are just drawings. These words I
have written may just be words. They might be nothing
but a pastime. The same goes for the photographs,
edited beyond their original skin. Although I think
perhaps, they are valuable. I have felt their lungs wake
and dream as I felt my own when staring at the large
white wall in my mothers’ house
or the ever-growing pile of clothes I can’t seem to
fathom packing away.
Some of them are beautiful, as are these little
moments. Or maybe not yet. I think for now, they are
only pretty. Not loud, nor aware of their existence.
Not yet. But they breathe.
Some, I simply understand as a relatable thing,
reminding me of a very stagnant emotion, a stagnant
time frame, a moment of delightful boredom.
But also, something intimate, if I spend enough time