Different Lines, Different Shapes are my Language and Voice

For so many years I pushed the pens and pencils and pixels only to find frustration, despair, and misery, over and over and over and over and over again until I had to stop, years ago. Drawing turned out to be not so much of an outlet as a tip of a rapidly descending spiral that I tried to force myself to return to on many occasions, mostly to my detriment.

Maybe I will occasionally find some solace in it in the future, in small doses. May I someday find the pleasure in it that my child self once loved.

Meanwhile — I never should have left the words behind. It turns out that they were my pencils, paints, charcoal, conte and even pixels all along.