The car engine hums gently as I drive the long winding road on the stretch of desert between the city and my new home, a concept that my mind does not appear to grasp. Home, what is home?
My journey home starts as I tune in to what I, in my humblest of opinions, consider a musical masterpiece, Fields of Coral by the legendary Vangelis.
The lights dim as the road in front of me melts into despair. Despair soaked in evil, spawning dark wakeless waters where I set sail. Tempestuous winds billows the sands, molding them into mountains before whittling them into voiceless cries.
I enter the borderless waters of insanity. A black canvas with blots of cracked paint and torn fragments of skin and decaying double faced overweight demons. A mad world where the artist holds a brush, soaks it in water instilled with fear to mend the cracks of broken canvas with an idea that may save it from utter oblivion. To save it from the demon with the flaming hair and the halos around the wrists.
Jellyfish-like monstrosities glow in the deep, yet serene and peaceful the ambient, muted light they provide. It’s the fear in the cell, the genetically coded nonsense we code ourselves. Fine wonders, artistic fiends with tentacles gripping the truth and feeding on the obtuse, the very artist.
And yet I pass with no fear here. I am welcomed, lauded with a fiery display of magnetic winds and sands, an aquatic dance with thoughts and desires, lustful intimation and an ardent embrace of letting go.
It is in this insanity, that I can feel home.