I was conflicted about my mom's innocuous instructions to my younger brother.
Yes, they were heartwarming; it's nice to be pampered--to have my brother bother me just a little bit less, to be welcomed with warm embraces, to be cooked tasty bok choy, to be taken on fun outings.
But the gesture was as sweet as it was thought-provoking.
What does it mean to be a guest in my own house? In my own hometown? Amongst my own family?
Each homecoming feels novel, but I soon settle into old rhythms. Life at college fades away and home materializes on the foreground--just as life at home is tucked away while I'm at school, only to be revived upon my return. I alternate between two unfinished paintings, each close to my heart, but featuring contrasting tones, styles, colors. They are different worlds, almost entirely separate spheres.
In my absence, the paintings evolve. I forget how I left them--but unprecedented changes also emerge, as if countless mysterious hands made adjustments during the interim.
I can claim ownership of neither painting, but they both have left deep imprints on my being. I have felt resonance while immersed in my work on each. I have learned volumes about myself from the process.
So I'll rest here for a spell, as a guest at home--before jetting off once again to put finishing touches on this semester.
As a liberal arts student/endurance athlete/violinist/fashion enthusiast, I find beauty in many spheres. Consequently, I have no idea where life will lead me. Here is where I document my journey to creating myself--soul-baring reflections, embarrassing photos, and all. Feel free to join me for the ride.