Balls of light, splashes of colour, my hands yearn for the ability to spread paint on a canvas, a support, a white surface, anything. I wish I could splatter all of these things that inhabit me out, about, around.
Put me into a room covered in white.
Give me paint to play with.
Let me express all of that which waits to explode from within me.

Words are like tiny tubes into which only fragments fit, tiny particles of all that which is within, abstract, non-verbal, human, organic, a grunt of inner worlds.

Lines drawn onto a paper, onto a screen, words are but squiggles of symbols, nothing more than etches of the rich worlds that inhabit these thinking vessels that walk about, melting into their surroundings even as they believe they remain eternally separate.

Images are but frozen sections of a melody that exists beyond sound, beyond our comprehension of ourselves. They are but snapshots of a world filled with connotations, hidden messages, communication, meaning, usage, emotions and existence... Even when they convey more than a thousand words ever could, they fail to grasp the depth of this endlessness that inhabits my being.

If I could sink my hands into existence and shape it to show You all of that which is within me, would You see better? Would You pause and listen to all that which we share? Would You open up and hear the sound of the beat that lights us all up? Would You let me reach into You and mix with all of that which You are? Would You let me penetrate You with all of that which I carry within me?

Like fingers sliding into a bag of lentils, I would like to penetrate the pulse that animates existence, that fills all of this space we occupy in the Universe. I would like to grasp it, feel it run between my fingers, wrap itself around these hands of mine, and then feel it spread as I press my hands against the materiality of all that which holds us separate from one another...