My latest painting, pretty proud of this one! It’s an officially licensed Wonder Woman artwork. Also available as a print at Bottleneck Gallery ONLY until this Sunday (March 11th at 11:59PM EST!)
‘All I wanted was to be an actor when I was a child, and do the best I could, and be part of making films that people enjoyed. And I feel very honoured and grateful that Empire have chosen me. If they have selected me this year it’s really… it’s a lovely thing.’
I am not an open book.
The hardness of my cover and the complexity of my contents were not designed for weak fingertips and feeble minds. I have been opened once or twice. My spine stroked by flimsy hands, held with a broken focus, my pages slightly skimmed through, only to be put down mid-sentence. I have yet be placed in the gentle care of a reader that doesn’t mind that my chapters are often cut short, my edges sharp and my pages loose; one with the intent to finish.
As I accept my place on the shelf, I no longer ache to be taken down, opened up and validated by the comfort of fleeting eyes. I have begun to find solace in my own story, comfort in between the lines and a curious fascination for the pages still blank. I no longer worry if my analogies are beautiful enough for Pulitzer Prizes and Nobel awards.
I only pray that one day, my sentences will leave traces of ink on the heart strong enough to comprehend them and I am no longer taken out of context.
I have always had an affinity for words but I did not know true love until I read my own.
I think there is a certain age, for women, when you become fearless. It may be a different age for every woman, I don’t know. It’s not that you stop fearing things: I’m still afraid of heights, for example. Or rather, of falling — heights aren’t the problem. But you stop fearing life itself. It’s when you become fearless in that way that you decide to live. Perhaps it’s when you come to the realization that the point of life isn’t to be rich, or secure, or even to be loved — to be any of the things that people usually think is the point. The point of life is to live as deeply as possible, to experience fully. And that can be done in so many ways.
Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night air, trying to steady himself, trying regain control. He should have brought something to give them, and he had not thought of it, and every plant in the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione raised her wand, moved it in a circle through the air and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before them. Harry caught it and lait it on his parents’ grave.
“Flowers in your hair. Finishing a book you’ve been reading for weeks. Skipping down an empty hallway. “Why are you so naive?” You leave pieces of yourself in everything you touch. Maybe that’s why you’re so empty. Finding a dollar on the sidewalk. The smell of aging books. Pointing out constellations in the night sky. Tied together with a smile, though the string is fraying. The sensation of falling within a dream. Tracing the freckles along bare skin. Beige walls. You always felt comfortable doing what you were best at. No one told you the weight of everyone else would be so heavy. Not to worry, the sun will always have your back.”