I’m staring at this painting which lives now in my room. I saved it. I saved it from being forgotten. Being buried in a landfill surrounded by objects nobody wants. I saved it from entering oblivion.
Walking back to my house, I saw this painting leaning on a bin in the middle of the street. It stood there, unwanted, hated and broken (you can see that the canvas is broken creating this lion who appears behind the deep green bush and floats in a limitless sky).
I feel like this painting contains much more than just emotions. It contains Anger from the canvas’ cut, Love from the lion’s deep eyes, Ideology from the cross on its head. Yet there is a point where it also contains the painter’s self, and now it also contains part of me.