Where history ends, art starts picking at its stitches. You can’t excavate a battlefield with facts—silence, shovel, and stuttered sentence. The past isn’t dead; it’s half-buried and twitching, waiting for someone to name the muscle. And I just happened to mention; I’m an aspirant. What’s the Likelihood?
We don’t dig for bone. We whisper at it. Walk the trench line, pick up a rusted bullet, holding ear close—listen for a shot that hasn’t happened yet. Care to join? If it’s terrifying, I call it art. Beauty isn’t decorative. Beauty is the last onlooker while truth smolders on.
Echoes aren’t relics—they’re live wires. Touch one, time jolts back.
Art isn’t interpretation—it’s the moment the wound gasps for breath and speaks. The past doesn’t die—it learns to wear your face.
History’s secrets aren’t buried—they’re knitted into the fabric of time like bad stitching, waiting for someone to come along, lean in, and tease the thread. How else might we pull if we’re not first close enough to that which may require pulling? When the sweater starts to unravel, why sew? Why not tug? Why not frame it, photograph the yarn, write a poem of lint? The secrets aren’t in what happened—we all know what happened.
Time isn’t fragile, your grip is.
The crack’s the entry. The blood’s the poem. Rhythm in your veins, pretending it’s the first time—over and over again. The crack’s not a door, it’s a mouth. Your grip? The only fragile thing here.
Everything else is bleeding just beautifully. Warm to the touch means it’s still looping, you’re not just in the picture, you’re the shutter that never closes.
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