Even when I Drown
Acrylic, Gouache, Colored Pencil, Maker 36x48
There is little difference between the mind, the sky, and the sea—
all are vast, all hold storms, all conceal galaxies.
Even when I drown, I still dream.
My voice rises from depths unmeasured,
yet the ears of the world remain shallow.
Bruises mark my bones, but swelling makes room—
a spine of galaxies,
a heart that still watches,
a spirit that refuses to break.
This painting speaks to the paradox of being submerged in thought yet yearning to be heard. The cubes along the spine are both burdens and building blocks—reminders that even pain expands space within us. The chained ribs and bruised bones hold an eye within the heart, as if perception itself beats in rhythm with survival.
The work asks: Where does the soul truly sleep? Is it in the infinite sea of mind, in the galaxies of the universe, or somewhere hidden within the bruises we carry? For me, the answer shifts like water—sometimes drowning, sometimes expanding.