The trinkets, mementos, and pieces of our physical and spiritual lives
spill over
into our dreams, fabricating lands built from the stones of thought we pluck and tuck into our back pockets—
the remnants of consciousness that we naturally forage from our daily surroundings. I often wonder if our dreams expand and grow alongside us as we age and collect, navigating the constant cycles of attachment and detachment within our complex lives.
Hoarding and stowing the physical remnants of life that we encounter, grasping at all that life has to offer,
I build my palettes.
Trinkets and thingamabobs once given to me by others, leftovers of my past selves, and the discarded remnants of those who tread the ground before I swirl through my mind and weigh down my back pockets.
These thingthingsthi. jthinkthings, jgrjgdeas, places, and beings become forever intertwined, forming an endless narrative across varying scales of time and space—
a story
readable only to one.
My piles, pockets, and drawers emptied and reshaped into the web I have spun, a flashy quilt built from infinite origins and climaxes, filtered, plucked, and chosen by one.