"What is the explanation of the seemingly insane drive of man to be painter and poet if it is not an act of defiance against mans fall and an assertion that he return to the Garden of Eden? For the artists are the first men." -Barnet Newman

We live in such a tension of the mundane and surreal. We become impressionistic of becoming avant-garde. Finding ourself lost in the everyday unsystematic nothings and tomorrow somethings. Colors and words float effortlessly past our minds, and we find ourselves a blank canvas of foreseeable evils. Caught up in the rat race of self indulging negligence, we rest in the thought of a false sense of security.

I have lost myself in the chance of the present; the ever imposing thought of time stopping now. I am shaded gray, not by choice, but by the inheritance of the exhalation of being created. Stopping, I rejoice in the rain. Embracing who I am presently; let by gones be by gones. Wrapping myself in the embrace of beloved, I breathe freely.