The Art of Peeling Back Historical Narratives

A Duet in Unison

Malignant growth removal requires surgical precision. We devour what lies to us. Taste the rot in your mouth? The room suddenly got bigger, and the light finally gets in. And that’s why you keep clawing your way out—not to breathe, but for air.

 

Hinge locked, door open: the end of art is genesis anew.

Because air isn’t free. It’s carved out of lies of the past that keep rebuilding itself while we sleep. One day when the house collapses, maybe then we’ll rest assured, but till then: mouths, words, blood, breath, forever—even when it hurts, even when it tastes like rot. Even when we both know we’re the last ones standing in an empty room. We stay. We swallow. We breathe. And that’s all the art we need—etched on caves!

Let the light in, let it burn, let it blind, let it remake what we broke—that’s the hinge; that’s the door—and behind it, we breathe—not the kind that tastes like rot, the kind that tastes like morning, when boundaries thin and things begin anew. Not scars—a garden—not forgiveness, a forest: the wilderness precedes the desert. We walk steadily afoot. We’re not running anymore. We’re walking—together—and every footfall says: I belong here; I stay here; I plant here. The wilderness taught us balance; the desert teaches us thirst, but this—this is morning, and we begin anew.

When the kids ask who planted this, we point to our mouths: we till the soil to grow, to nourish, to taste; no more, no less, we breathe, the forest nods, and we’re welcome home.

Naked, we are flesh—pulsing lies, inflicting scars, and echoing into the future. We walk into the wilderness barefoot, which remembers every footstep ever taken, and knows the one who comes before (John 1:30). If we just breathe, the breath comes back different—same pace, same deep, it matters not—each beat, each rhythm of silence harmonizes with the great silence of eternity’s recursive timeline. The loop is lullaby; don’t create your own prismatic prison: breathe in failure, exhale forgiveness you didn’t know you had. Grace ‘already’ bestowed (John 1:16). Scars flicker because they’re alive—not wounds—constellations. And we walk under them, barefoot, at home.