I could fly once.

I’ve heard many times that the world seemed brighter when we were younger. One day with my father comes immediately to my mind. Summer. The smell of the sun. We’re going I don’t remember where or why. But the way there was colourful: yellow, green, blue - no impurities. 

There was also one winter morning. I just woke up. I was looking out of the window. Everything was covered with snow. So thick that nothing was visible. Except for the snow. The taste was blue on the tongue. And I was planning to go for a walk to jump deep into fantasies. 

There was also a kindergarten next to the house. Behind the kindergarten there was a park with four playgrounds separated by a fence of bushes. In each fence there was an inconspicuous passage to another area of the park. I walked in this park only with my babysitter. And maybe with someone else. But I only remember her. She told me instructive tales and then asked me a series of questions like: “who is right and who is to blame? Why is he/she/it guilty? Can we really blame him?”. I thank her for teaching me how to accept and feel free. During the walk, she didn’t stop me from fantasizing. She helped instead. I had four states, four planets, four worlds to choose from.

One day I got so fantasized that I took off. I was in my room, playing with a plush Winnie the Pooh. I jumped a lot, tried to learn how to fly like Peter Pan. Jump-jump-jump. And then I took off. For a couple of seconds. I was floating in the air with Winnie the Pooh in my hands. The breathing stopped, the whole world froze. Then I landed on the ground. Very smoothly. I ran to my stepmother to tell her about it. I don’t remember what she said, but I didn’t fly anymore. Maybe it was a dream? But why does it still feel so real?

The colors have faded with age. I think it has to do with the loss of naivety and innocence. I’m not clean. Neither physically nor mentally. I was consumed by rage, resentment, envy which diluted bright colors with fetid tar.

School, bullying, disagreements with my father. I found out that the woman who raised me was not my mother. I was sent to my aunt right after that. And then there were other moms. Each one was different. From good to evil step mom from kids movies. And it seemed like I was not so important to my father anymore. For him, I was a loser, a scarecrow. I wished just one single good word flying from his mouth towards me. And then I had men who was just like my father. And then violence and “users” that raped my flesh and soul. I’m just a body. There is a bitter taste on the lips, a maroon-black mess in front of the eyes. I’m nothing. Or am I someone?

In my paintings, I release sublimated emotions associated with traumatic events in my life. I mix every second of pain with faith in understanding, acceptance, love, love for myself, nature, the world and for every immaculate being in it. The perception of the world by the surviving part of the “child’s” brain forces me to use bright and juicy colors. That’s how I see it. That’s how I feel it. I mix the sweet base with the bitter lust of people and create a new love, a new world. I want to save this kid side of me and art helps me with realising my wish. The characters of my paintings do not exist. And there is no such a world. Or is it still there? Maybe. After all, it feels so real.

I’m learning to fly again. One day I will get off the ground and levitate unstoppably.