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the palm trees resist. in the deep blue skies their silhouettes battle the forces we can’t see. the pills negate most of my manic states but my brain continues to rot everything outside of the chaos it contains. my uneven notes create an imbalanced page & i hate imbalance, so i write around the curves of a glass—full of water for the first time in late november as far back as i can remember.

my attempts at a video fall so short of the natural brilliance the air commands. why are we destroying this, the wonder of our life—why do we destroy what we love, what allows our hearts to beat with substance, a sense of meaning, of wonder & belonging. the feeling of fresh air found in the eyes of another.

sit with the wind, collapse in its arms when no one will hold you. listen to the laughter next door & hold hope that someday you’ll laugh again too.

beginnings always require an end. habits adjust accordingly, rooms become cemeteries. there are no units of measurement for loss or sadness. emotional reaction has been socially groomed in this hell, affixed to the value of contributing to the madness of the masses. a slow drone builds in the background.

what have i learned in these years, months, days? meaning is a personal interpretation & we are all alone together. the world has faded to black—our eyes are closed for the eternal slumber, all that remains are the phosphenes from digital screens of memories.

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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