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everyone has a story,
every rose has its thorns.

Peace

I look back in wonder
at how I used to be
At my life untethered,
blown about like the waves of the sea.

Happiness I did find,
fleeting and deceiving.
Amplified in solitude were the
Knives, into my heart, plunging.

Unknown to me, patiently
waiting, was the loyal One.
So willing to forgive,
Comfort, till I had no more need to run.

Into the arms of Protection,
Love itself. Anxiety
taken away, and then brought
Peace like a river, forever to stay.

most recent yet not recent work.

Haven’t dabbled in printing in a long while now, and i only did very little over the past year after I came over to York to study. I brought my inks and lino and blades but didn’t really get down to doing anything. I finally got inspired to make one for a friend and here it is.

It is her dream house for the future, and thought it’ll be nice as a gift.

For me, the best part is the excitement of seeing the first print, and seeing how it turned out. It is always a thrill when it turns out to be how I wanted it to be like (ie no missing parts or wrongly mirrored or things looking totally weird), and it always looks better than I expect it to turn out, because seeing it in print is so different from what it looks like while I am working on the lino. Love it.

Late night walks home.

Before this world starts up again, it’s me & night.

blurry.

In the midst of all the frenzy and the stress, I can’t help but yearn for mindless procrastination which I satisfy too eagerly, like a mummy bird feeding its young. And at other times I stare at lines of text and figures until the blue on white blur into a jumble of indistinct colour, which I hardly even notice, whilst thinking of moments past. I think of sweet memories, they always come back with sweeter, like they were ripening in my mind, all the negative emotions lost in time. I pull out memories of dreams, sleepily forgotten as the day goes on, sometimes thinking how bizarre they were, sometimes thinking of how I wish they were real, and how real it felt in the depths of slumber, and sometimes at the edge of wakefulness and dreaming, I recall how it actually was a memory.