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Bēhance

The ink blots of melancoly

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  • Its been years since I’ve felt melancholy, neither am I at this moment, yet watching empty trees on a lost highway hints of its memory and seems to linger inside my mind, like the humidity in this cold winter's air. 
     
     
     
     
     
     
  • These photographs are like the ink stains on paper washed out by tears. Words that I can no longer read, lost to the what was. So many sensations back flashes fragments of mirrors rush through my head as these trees quickly pass me by. I feel no warmth as everything blanketed in fog and blurred by the condensation of my breath on the car window. 
  • Fragments of childhood memories such as the modern paintings of minimal masters hanging proudly on my mother's wall , ink stains on my father's paper, as he paints  and draws his elegant swimming Koi’s, Moments i've found reading painful beautiful poems written on the diary of a lost friend making these tears fell upon her phrases and rhymes blotting its pages.
     
  • These trees are my inkblots of memory, for as I speed past them, I read a chapter of my story.
  • wondering in between the lines of branches and shades of grey. 
  • I find peace , silence and thought.