Let the goldfish

Let it

Let that sink in

Let the goldfish do their thing

Let the water wash away

All the wounds that bleed.

(more drawings here)

The coming silence

  I have learned to be wary of the silence that rests upon my lips sometimes.  Every silence has its own taste, a distinct quality from one to another. I revel in getting to know each and every one of them, appreciating them and weighting them before my eyes. But there are silences I prefer to avoid, whenever they approach there is always a different air about them. I used to be afraid of awkward silences but that has changed ever since I got introduced to another silence, the silence that befalls after a certain delicate yet distinct line has been crossed. I'm afraid every time this kind of silence engulfs me, when it rises from within me and washes over everything, it takes me over with the technique of scorched earth, stealthily and surely.
  When I become silent like this,  a page has turned and in the past I've firmly closed books that I have never looked back upon. And though it was unpleasant, I have not come to regret it yet. I'm afraid because when this silence stirs, everything else goes dormant.
  At times I wonder whether each time there are parts that never fully awaken.