Outside to Inside
My hair creates an ever-changing pattern, a river of black against multicolored background. Whistling its own tune, kicked up by the rush of air of cars passing by, almost like ants in their haste to get wherever they are going. Different people dressed in a spectrum of colors swirl and blur around me. I look around at all of these things and my mind throws them all together, creating a new image that has different parts of each scene mixed into it. the rough edged sign of the coffee shop, the dark blue BMW that has just passed, the woman in the red coat at the bus stop whose hair is dancing around her face. the corners of her lipsticked mouth are pulled down into a thoughtful frown. I suddenly have the urge to pull out my old sketchpad and give life to a new picture.
Sometimes, late in the evenings, I sit at me desk, pencil and paper in front of me, desperately searching my mind for something to draw, battling away distractions like T.V. and the Internet. My frustration at coming up with nothing gets the better of me and I give up, going into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for sleep. I look into the mirror and suddenly a light comes on: a young girl looking into a mirror and eeing an old woman looking back at her, a younger me and an older, wearier me. Looking back down, I turn on the faucet and think of a waterfall cascading into a great bowl-shaped lake.
That night, as I sleep, my dreams are filled with the same pictures, blending them into a confusing jumble of cutouts that form and fit together: a giant bowl filled by a waterfall, a girl staring into the water, ripples distorting her reflection, turning it into that of an old woman. It seems more like a story than just a picture.
I open my eyes, the image still burned onto the back of my eyelids, encouraging me to write a story or paint a picture of what I have seen. Even in my dreams, I can find a new way to express myself on paper.
