DAMIEN
.
.
I finally saw the depth of the wound driving him.
He had nowhere to put it, did he?
No way to bleed it out safely.
Me, I had paint.
Hours spent in the studio, the smell of turpentine always in the air, translating the chaos in my head onto canvas.
Slashing colors, heavy textures, figures lost in shadow painting was the only thing that pulled the screaming silence out of me, that let me put the pieces of the wreckage into some kind of order, even if it was just on a surface.
Painting the jagged edges of grief, the suffocating weight of responsibility, the terrifying freedom of being utterly alone.
Painting things that fit the way the world felt broken, sharp, beautiful in its own f****d-up way and protecting Gerald.
Always protecting Gerald.
Pulling him out
