My practice emerges every week, the table listening to what projects I prefer to work on. I have rearranged my materials many times in the last month, still unsatisfied with where everything goes. I am meticulously combing through everything we live with, weighing it against "need" or "want." I have noticed an additive quality to the work I make. I suppose the subtractive need to eliminate clutter balances such an act.

Is it the subtle season change into Gray May? I remember now that I purposely brought nothing of significance related to my schooling. My obsession for truth and genuine statements have begun to cripple me, causing anxiety and self-doubt to look at the work I make. Lashing out at any form of silence or pause. As though my conscious fights this break in jaw-clenching work, while the rest of my mind begs for peace. Like I am waiting for another tide to take me.

I dream of school, I dream of saving money, I dream of room and time to dance around my ideologies again.