(photos courtesy of Concrete Cowgirl)
The older I get, the more my childhood home becomes its own wilderness. I stay up late in this 12x15 jungle & get lost in the thickets of my mind... Draped in secrets, I blanket this old ceiling with question mark clouds.
My room looks like A.C. Moore's schizophrenic sister... littered with colors & textures & mistakes. New projects begin before others finish & coffee breath scorches tangerine walls.
Here, isolation is my armor. Silence is my switchblade. And solitude nurses the scrapes of inquisition marred on the skin of my youth.
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