live signal

There are times it is difficult to know… whether I am white reflections of star stuff on blackness, or inky presence on a field of nothing. A channel for light, or a translator of dark futility. A purposeless emission billowing skyward, wasted. Or a harbinger of evolved sensitivity. Acting as progenitor or scout leaves me feeling like a space probe, shot into darkness sending back data I’m unsure is even being received, the contents of which I don’t always understand. Often questioning my trajectory and mission.

Receptivity hardly qualifies as a redeeming human quality on paper. It will be valued someday, I hope. Once we’ve invested as much to our internal evolution as we do our external, perhaps. I think that’s what these transmissions are about. A plane where higher consciousness reigns is eager to send us dispatch proclaiming its plausibility. But I’m not even sure what to do with this information. So i’ll just keep transmitting. Quietly sailing out into the black, whispering backward to Earth.

ink on paper (top), artist on earth (middle), white charcoal on black paper (bottom)