Every image I have created is a timestamp of my life. The unreliable memories behind them linger, concentrating in time. Time lost to developmental turmoil hides behind the image we suppress for palatable art and a glimpse of stability. Slitting my wrists for a body in comfort. We carry residual feelings tethered to the experience on our shoulders, like armor exposing ourselves.
My memories have been cataloged through life’s emotional fluctuation, where one side is perpetually limited, and the other feels eternal - Abusing my highs and lows to finance the gambling addiction I have with my future. An exploitative dilution of self for the manifestation of my mind’s erraticy. As the suppressed feelings become physical, the line between introspection and self-obsession blurs, and I wonder what my life will be worth.
