It’s seemingly in times where I do not know where to turn, I turn to my hands. These hands that have started out small, on the ground, as I was learning to crawl. These hands that slowly lifted themselves off the ground and instead aimed for the skies. As I went through life and realized, one’s works are most prized of all – I put them to work; night and day I churned them. When they were not holding pens, pencils, calculators, mouses, or tapping away at black, white, or electronic keys – they were found grabbing food to fill my hunger. Hunger that was only temporary and momentous, before being filled, and then back to work.
Those days of where busy-ness seemed to litter every corner of my life. As I worked for myself, but most of all – my family. They were the ones I was around when I came into this Earth. Everything I try for, they are among those whom I think about the effects that affect upon. But doesn’t it feel as if you are bound down when you realize your limits, though for an aim, are restrained to a certain extent as you take other considerations into play, when making decisions.
So tiring. Where were those days when everything was constant, with unlimited uncertainty. I found solace in those moments. As I took every step with those around me, the consistency was comfort as I knew there were no farewells to be said. Being easily accustomed to the presence is a curse in some ways. As they move on, you remain there. But with the lingering sense that haunts one for quite a while. The lighthouse, the captain. Do they frequent enough in my heart for this void to be sealed away, until the return?
Claude Monet – Secret Garden
These 38 paintings. The largest exhibition in North America. They are here. Until a certain end date, as all things seem to approach, at one point or another.