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The Sketchbook

Every sketchbook should desire to be finished. For the human mind’s complexity to be splattered onto them. The beauty of art is that it doesn’t require a filter, but intuition. The ability to let go and let the soul paint what words cannot. I was different. Why do sketchbooks wish all their pages were filled? For closure, if there ever was such a thing? Closure of what? Closure of a chapter? Closure of images that once lived, free and wild? I sometimes wonder if the birth of an image on my surface meant the death of it, too. Once it’s out of the artist’s mind, the art wasn’t alive anymore. My pages were overfilled. Masood had stuffed me with different pages because he couldn’t fit his drawings on mine. He came home every day to relax, painting out his worries and fears, enjoyment and love onto me. It felt like whiplash. On one page, his soul painted iridescence. On the other, he drew entrapment. I enjoyed being his passion. His haven. I enjoyed his sons’ awe at how he decorated me, lea...
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The Silence

The Silence

By Introverted Yapper / Hazel F.

The screams, murmurs, and the whispers in between —
Peregrinated, gathered together
To fill the silence

Perhaps that’s why it
Sometimes screams,
Sometimes murmurs,
Sometimes whispers.
Sometimes feels heavy,
Sometimes feels like home.

Because are we ever truly alone?
Would we not lose our minds if we were?

And the silence breaks —
Only so we can fill it with more.

Sometimes, it even carries a scent:
The vellichor of an old bookstore,
The stale breath of an abandoned home,
Lingering with memories that still whisper to the silence.

They say silence is the absence of sound.
But what if it’s the presence of everything lost?

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