I feel overwhelmed. There seems no hope to right the wrongs, change the past, and do things better. I feel paralyzed and drowning. My breathing is shallow, my eyes leak. Surely, as the pen moves across the page again and again, it begins to fade, and it dries up. I am the only one able to continue. Painting doesn't change anything. In the end I grasp the truth of where I stand.
paper, paint, ink