AT THE TIP OF MY PEN

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There's a translation that occurs between the body and the emotions we feel: past, present, future, all one overloading current that wraps us up, and no language can suffice to express it. I have two languages to express myself. You'd imagine the linguistic possibilities would be better, but the more words I learnt the less I knew how to capture any of the crazy abstracts that roams around my head and all of the reactions to the life that unfolded in front of me were otherwise wasted on words. Drawing was the medium of self-communication.

I've always believed the eyes don't see a world we're a part of, but that instead the world projects images onto us, and the life we're living in is our own translation of the said stimuli. I've never been too fond of any one style of music, art, film, or food, and the eclectic reflected quickly in my art. Perhaps stunted into an adolesence of bewilderment of all things possible, or maybe too much of an old soul to focus on defining, I keep trying to find my wordless words at the tip of a pen.