Distrubed

I have never been afraid of the dark and the deep side of things; I tend to dive in them and make a reality out fading spaces. That’s art to me. But, bringing out the part that knows she has been neglected to shive in agony can be darker than I would have imagined. After all every functional system can get overloaded by a shock.

a) I have been dealing with disgust and disturbance so much, I'm talking about a ton of it that I allowed myself to deal with in the past few months.

I would like to compare disturbance to intoxication and the way it happens to me; I never black out. My “system” alerts me of the coming sickness way before there is enough substance in my blood streams. I quit. I run. My system, however, keeps the toxins within. I wish to vomit, but my stomach refuses to relieve me from the pain. The disease I have brought in my system remains there for a long time. Then it withers away in hours as I am forced to watch hollow bodies moving across the bedroom ceiling. As each and every cell in my body revisits this horrifying experience from the moment it started. The toxin, moves through my veins, leaving scars on my living fibers as it gets washed away slowly, slowly. A sad part of me wants to shut the system down but, the quick and impatient part ironically waits awake and blinks with every rush of sadness. Yet, never shuts her eyes closed. She holds up a torch as if riding a dark road is all she has ever known.

b) To my humble understanding decolonization discourse stands for addressing the colonizer, the cruel, for bringing them in, to witness what they have done, to shed the shaming skin and to have the other side of the story to “feel” as much as they can of what they have caused.

I am not decolonizing. I am drawing. I distort my lines, hoping to see a different entity coming forward.

Disturbed