Ink
- May 9
- 1 min read
When I hold a pen, shame disappears. I have a powerful magic wand. The black pen marks paths and draws streets, defines bordered spaces and scketches skin. Creation of a world.
The ballpoint at the tip carves the path with a rustle, splitting paper fibers that the ink saturates. Black streams create boundaries, lines of testimony, lines of expression, lines of presence, lines of life. Outline for body, for memories and demons. The outline materialise them in form and reveals them. They stand naked, in the prison of composition, bound to paper. They have no words to justify themselves. And I can identify, separate, recognize, become acquainted with them, contain them and carry them with me in peace.
Straight lines, winding, receding and colliding, a negative space that inhabits the breathing space. The tension remains on the page and momentarily leaves my shoulders.
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