But my life as an artist is a lovely
state of a perpetual entropy. One moment
I’m vomiting colors and textures, you
blink, the next, I am my depressive
self again. Procrastinating, drowning
in the tub filled with negativity.
Perhaps that is how I should describe
my art. After all, you are your art.
How else am I going to be different
from any other Picasso if I paint the
strokes of others?
In the corner of my room, my paint,
stiff brushes, and blank canvases
gathering dust wait as discerning
witnesses. My anxiety-filled art and
literature speaks for me.
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HUBIN MAGAZINE