I wanted this project to feel real. To speak to that which is buried and bound to constricted silence.

Creating is something. Summoning the musky howling shaking, the transparent wonder of your own fingerprints that smudged a clue of you.

Creāre. To make grow. To bring into being.

To create is to bring a companion to share with you the utter gravity of being.. Something to hold what is utterly too much to hold alone. fuck.

I know this because I made things on my knees. In the deepest pain of grief, making with my hands was the only thing I could do. I felt like if I didn't I would combust into shards or the pain would swallow me whole.

This was not only a choice. It was also an expulsion. A moving something out of you, across the threshold of the inside, into form. And in that crossing, the meaning changes. The unbearable becomes a thing. Something with edges. Something that exists outside the body that was drowning in it.

What that thing becomes is yours to discover.

For some it is a companion. Something that holds the exact shape of what you couldn't say. Just recognition.

For others it is an offering A moment of rdiscovery so that another person can find themselves inside what you made. So they to can be gently lifted by the giving.

Or it is simply energy finding paper. Pen. Clay. Movement. Sound. The body knowing what it needs before the mind catches up.

However it arrives. Creation is communion. Not the kind where you consume the sacred to take it inside you. Here you don't do the eating. You are the body. You made it from yourself.

So. Fuck it.

If you don't know what else to do.

Create.

There was nothing quite like it. And now there is. And it is fucking mesmerizing.

i just dont really care. and from that liberation.