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the slow fight between the shadows & the light

now everything is dusty & the passing conversations about love from the windowsill remain unrelatable. passively lying about vacationing to seattle in the winter-times. the bar is set higher for standards of secrecy. lonesome pathways intersect & overlap across the hillside then disappear with separate soundtracks. my slingshot trajectory has thrown me into the dark. i can’t see the sunset from home anymore, but i swear i saw venus through the haze last night. maybe our souls become objects in space after we leave this prison. the good ones form the stars. evil becomes a planet humans could inhabit.

fucked my wrist trying to fix my broken back. the sky darkens & saturates into a blue i wish i could paint. consequences of age now exist in the breaths we hold for seconds, minutes—unconcerned that time is illusory but still pushes us toward death with the darkness above. i dried up the day my options did too. they say a light is just around the corner, but i’ve been running my whole life & have yet to find the turn.


5:45 AM from the backyard of GV2

It’s been a long fall. I’m not too sure yet how to write about it. I enjoyed my last sunrise in Mar Vista this morning, the dawning of a new day which I’d end back here, “home,” in Little Armenia.

I have an unfamiliar weight on my chest. An expression of these months colliding with the future. I could anticipate something in this return to reality, but the content of that circumstance couldn’t be anticipated. For now it’s heavy breathing, some invisible hand pushing lightly but firmly down on my sternum.

The objects surrounding me now still seem familiar, but my body doesn’t. Connection is currently a strange fiction. There is a fog of peace, a threat of calm. Movement is about to push in many directions, but now I am here, where I was months ago, but where then I really wasn’t.

It’s been a long fall, I am tired & the helicopters have replaced the far-away planes in the night sky. Forgive the vagueness & abstraction, I am not ambidextrous. These hands feel useless, anyway. There is much to do.

Colin Smith (b. 1982, based in Los Angeles) works in a form of assembly within and across disciplines, both in digital and analogue formats. Following in the ideas of media theorist Marshall McLuhan, the medium of his work is often dictated by its message—the diversity of projects that result are each an attempt to represent a particular thesis, a certain context.

Educated in graphic design and photojournalism, and self-taught in the visual arts, Smith has additionally worked as an art director, freelance designer or creative consultant for a variety of small businesses and independent clients around the world.

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