Pastel on Paper, 2019, by PM

Existence dies where I lye with no escape but my unexplainable, unattainable meanings of the reality from which I preside, how the world flies by when solely the desire to feel beautiful emblems the existential millennial crisis, all is well and good but with each step co-aligned with the master’s whip striking. We feel benign, compelled to walk each step with two feet strapped, the gat on your temporal lobe. The dreams, the hope, the desire to see the globe, the urge now one can no longer assume the burden of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness but the broken feet that once skipped, flipped and flopped to life’s content. The need for the master’s consent to feel the joy of life has now become the stock and stain of our existence. Freedom waits for no man, and we hope, we breathe; we breathe fast, we all fall, but peace in this existence is all we desire but how, when, where, will this befall. These are the ponderings i lye awake wondering in my wake.

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