Someones Art Is Trying To Say Something
I wasn’t 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 didn’t have a mom around.
We had mess.
We had kids trying to raise kids while pretending not to notice how tired we were.
That’s 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 didn’t know about Dali back then. Didn’t know the painting. Didn’t 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 else’s room clean when no one was keeping mine…
I found art.
I found wonder.
I found proof that maybe we weren’t just surviving.
We were creating.
Even if we didn’t 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 weren’t the first. We weren’t 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 didn’t keep the paper.
But I kept the memory.
That’s enough.
Still wading through the socks. Still carrying weight. Still seeing art in the mess.
🖤 No One Will Survive This Life Alive, 🖤
– Me <3