Shit, it must be Karma.
To live.
As such feeling propelled in this space, between childish nightmares and an adult world: words, colors, vague pop memories, characters too well cut to be real, and the songs, music, always, and absolute sex, sexual images, those that rule, taken away, sex and more music, more of it, words hard to articulate, softer with a raspy voice.
Memories of the child free and wild.
The duality of being adult: rabid scream, bellowing weeps.
Fingers, flesh, feelings erupting out of the body splashed over the canvas, the flow of internal energy: sacred fluid, alcohol, reaching a feeling of total unconscious.
Violence. Tear.
Sorrow. Hope. Joy. Heart. Hate. Intoxication. Magic. Miracle.
Energy discharge.
The gut, expels.
Unconscious gesture, primary painting, the one the unconscious throws violently on the canvas, stretched, supremely untouched, hungry.
Construction happens as progress is made.
And then, phew! Blank.
Empty, coma like.
Flashes. New pieces. Genesis.
Brand new fragment of history beginning and imposing itself. Incarnation.
Built in this gap, a cadenced vision crystalizes, hand that organizes and orchestrates that which the unconscious dictates and all the various disparate elements, yet intimately linked to each other, all driven out the same gut.
Quasi-hypnotic state, internal force gushing out slapping the canvas.
Fingers dig and scratch. Breathless.
Unconscious gesture precedes thought and the body is but a tool that channels execution.
Unconscious creative thought reigns.
Gushing, being.