Unspoken. Unsaid. A child’s hope may as well be dead. You’re asking them to walk around exposed…with bones instead of faces. You walked wounded eternally because no one was ever willing to hear or believe or conceive that this happened to you. And me. Until the silence grows to deafening destiny is written not by those who have suffered. And they tell me I am supposed to forgive. I send an avenging angel to ask you if you really believed you could escape. Rana dreamed she was an elephant. An elephant never forgets. And you can hide in the prison cave of your mind. I found art and so I am here. And now I speak for two.

 

And James Agee wrote “drawn tightly back at bay against the backward wall and blackness of its prison cave, so that the eyes alone shine of their own angry glory, but the eyes of a trapped wild animal, or of a furious angel nailed to the ground by his wings, or however else one may faintly designate the human 'soul,' that which is angry, that which is wild, that which is untamable, that which is healthful and holy, that which is competent of all advantaging within hope of human dream”

 

And so I will try to invoke the strength to be a furious angel. And I will try to make my art untamable. And I will try to share what has helped me with those who still feel the aftershocks of trauma. Welcome to a new beginning. Welcome to the show. Unspoken. Unsaid.

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