Silence is burdening. realization of thoughts in this form has an immersive weight. art is done. reality is more conceptualized it a clash and my self is left silent in the momentum of this collision when a splash of two buckets of water meet. i feel like a stone eroded by the constant ebb and the flow of the grittiness of the force. does that make a stone a sufferer or self made object of art? i have to write to materialize although it feels like prostituting the silence itself. silence is so honest, full of content, tension, authenticity. comfort.
it speaks so loudely that no one can hear.