I spent the morning painting a rainbow and phoenix on a wall on my street. Some of the leftovers spilled into my daily drawing.
I woke in the middle of the night from a dream in which I was witness to a landscape bare, burning, destroyed, poisoned. I had lost everything – people and possessions – and was trying to flee but with no idea of where I might go. In addition, I was aware of being at least in part guilty of causing the disaster, or at least of not having stopped it.
I don’t know how to draw this, and I don’t know how to stop leaking tears whenever I have a moment to sit quietly. So many people in the world already live this reality in some form, and already I hold this guilt. The charm and privilege of my life is that I don’t have to see or feel it if I choose not to.