“Above the couch, in my teeny one-bedroom apartment, hangs a painting of the ocean. I bought it when I moved in and at one of the lowest points of my life. There’re hints of a sun beaming behind those dark clouds, but it won’t come out. The waves are an angry black, with blueish white tips; crashing against the shore like frustrated fists to a tabletop. What shore it is, I have no idea. It’s an imagined piece. There’s no way in Hell a human being would be safe from that viewpoint. She/he would be smashed against those black, volcanic rocks. The result could be a splash of red to round out the blacks, greys, dark blues, and shocking whites. Sometimes I get lost in its chaoticness as it hangs quietly in my living room. To me, it’s a cheap painting that holds emotions and memories—though they’re bad ones. To others, it’s a color palette that matches my space. Regardless, I’ve always thought that if I could put music to it, it’d be The Ocean.” Save the whales!
