Melancholic Sensations

April 23, 2019. by

As human beings we are immensely complex. Our bodies are magnificent creations intricately laced with tissue and synapses to become functioning organisms. Our minds are even more complex, as it can travel into the past, future and alternative worlds where the unthinkable is possible. Together these compartments slot into each other to create the individual human being. But sometimes these components don’t fit harmoniously and discord bubbles to the surface. This discord can be illness to the physical body or to the mind. If left untreated, it can result in the destruction or demise of the individual human being. Physical illness can be seen and treated with accuracy, but illness of the mind is difficult to see and treat effectively.

I know my fair share of physical discord in the form of chronic migraine and occasional cluster headaches.(Just a note: it’s a type of pain I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy) I also know my fair share of mental discord in the form of childhood trauma, post traumatic stress disorder, major depression, anxiety and a suppressed volcano of crimson rage. At times the physical and mental conflict merges into a seemingly endless cesspool of despair. From time to time I feel like cutting myself open and letting my blood run free, perhaps my soul can hitch a ride and scamper away with it into oblivion. But life goes on, and the world doesn’t stand still for me or anyone. I have to get up and move, draw, paint, and dream even if it’s just one last dream.

 

Melancholic Sensations is the depiction of my deep-seated desolation. It encompasses the senses of touch, sight, taste and intuition, bleeding from the pages with shades of red sewing thread. Vintage sewing thread that belonged to my grandmother which I inherited. The eye bleeds red tears and represents seeing everything breathtaking and horrifying life has to offer. The mouth slobbers red strings of bitter and sweet words as they are spoken and sometimes swallowed in lament. The hand is unraveling at the arm and and gently holds onto the fragility of life; it is trying to fix its pain with a single needle. The heart is held together by threads than can snap at any given moment, leaving it in ruins.

 

 

”My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.”

– Anne of Green Gables