š
°āā.ą³ąæ*:d š
Someones Art Is Trying To Say Something
I wasnāt the big sister.
-Well, not in the sense of the oldest-
But I acted like it.
Because someone had to pick up the socks.
Fold the shirts.
Find the missing homework under the bed.
Keep the chaos from swallowing us whole.
We didnāt have a mom around.
We had mess.
We had kids trying to raise kids while pretending not to notice how tired we were.
Thatās how I found it.
A crumpled piece of paper buried under his stuff.
Notebook lines warped by folds and fingerprints.
But still (you could see it)
Melting clocks. Bending trees. A sky too soft to be real.
I didnāt know about Dali back then.
Didnāt know the painting. Didnāt know the history.
I thought my brother had just made it up.
That this strange, broken little world on a page had come from him.
And something about that⦠stuck.
Because even in mess.
Even in exhaustion.
Even in the quiet ache of trying to keep someone elseās room clean when no one was keeping mineā¦
I found art.
I found wonder.
I found proof that maybe we werenāt just surviving.
We were creating.
Even if we didnāt know it.
Later I learned:
The Persistence of Memory.
Salvador Dali.
Surrealism.
Dreams melting time into something soft and slow.
And I smiled.
Because I realized we werenāt the first.
We werenāt the only ones bending under the weight of clocks and love and chaos.
We were just kids.
Trying to keep things together.
Making strange art along the way.
I didnāt keep the paper.
But I kept the memory.
Thatās enough.
Still wading through the socks. Still carrying weight. Still seeing art in the mess.
š¤ No One Will Survive This Life Alive, š¤
– Me <3
°āā.ą³ąæ*:d
ā®
āÆ
šš
xoxo
friends forever āØ