Writer's Perspective
The "Writer's Perspective" is a visual documentation of my childhood writings. I recreated the feelings visually using a palate mix of orange white, grey and black. Orange and white represent the happy memories while grey and back account for the sad ones. The project is a mix of non-face portraits and object photography.
Corona why us?
I guess you'd agree that we haven't had the best year so far. I mostly try to put my feelings into words to make better sense of everything I go through. This article is the closest explanation of my mental state as of today.
I hope this makes sense to you.
27th May 2020, 5:07 am
I am a long long way from home at its 5 am as I write this. I know my dad would be very proud that I am up at this hour, but he will find it extremely unsettling to know that I am up because I find it really hard to sleep guilt free now a days. You must be aware of the guilt I am talking about? If you’re not, you might as well stop now because it’s gonna be a long read.I feel extremely powerful and fully self-aware as I write this. I don’t feel that all the time. Some days go by so easy, they sound like a whistle on a breezy day, but some are so dense, so violent, so heavy I feel every second of that day ringing in my head, like someone is drilling a well right next to my ear. Some days I feel loved. Loved by myself for staying strong and holding myself together but these days are so rare because mostly I am vulnerable and unloved and filthy. Today is a mix of both of the days. I cried because,
I couldn’t find a reason not to, but it felt okay once I was done. I heard the whistle again and the drilling guys went for a break. I wondered if I was okay? Because everyone I share these occurrences with ask me if I am.
I don’t know. I am okay sometimes, but sometimes I want to become so small and invisible and I want to take a nap… but even the nap is so burdensome because I am scared that the whistling will stop and the drilling guys will be back from their break and resume their work. Well at least someone’s working.. because I am just washing my hands again and again and again and I am told that I shouldn’t mind this because people are dying. They’re dying of the disease, hunger, fear, uncertainty and at least I am safe because I am home.
Am I safe? I don’t feel safe every day. Some days I receive the warmest hugs and the prettiest flowers and I am told the nicest things, and I am safe. I am safe for a while but the warmth of the hug goes away, the flowers die and the nicest things start to sound like lies because the drilling guys are back and I can’t hear a word of what my loved ones are telling me because do they really love me? Even I don’t love myself sometimes. But then the whistle is back and I feel calm. I tell myself that some days are better than others and some days are just the worst, but I have to hang in there because I will be home soon. It will all go away. I will be safe, and loved and, happy and I will be stronger and more confident and happier because the drilling guys will leave me THE FUCK alone, I just have to start to learn to whistle on my own. I didn’t intend to rhyme, but fuck it. I am a freaking poet.