FEW WORDS

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I feel the essence of another presence. A child wants to be born through my head. Wrenched out of my eyeballs. With blood trickling down my lips.
Every line, every colour, every form, every little dot has a life of its own. Since I do not seek their permission to bring them out into the world of white paper/canvas or any form of artistic creation but do it only to satisfy my own joy and hunger (Is the intention behind motherhood a bit of selfishness then ?); I a tleast try to give them a life of their own.
How much freedom they frisk out of me is yet unknowable and unnecessary; the important thing is they do exist as abstract ideas and as tangible results of those ideas and they have begun to acknowledge my presence as much as I do theirs.
Maybe I am putting myself on a high pedestal with this assumed act of creation.
But I am so done with flowers and vases and pretty ponds serene beneath magnanimous mountains! 
Location: London

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