I
find Madison Carter sitting in a corner of the room, her eyes fixed
in uncontrollable despair. She has subconsciously removed all the
furniture and possessions around her and retreated to a blank page,
yearning for safety and comfort.
This
isn't her lounge any longer. It isn't the room full of memories,
laughter and warmth she sat in only minutes ago. That room had been
constructed with bricks and plaster, covered in maroon and crème
paint, crammed with life. We are now a sterile, thin and fragile
space created from folds made in white paper. It does not possess the
necessary power to stop the ceaseless sludge on the other side. Tears
and oil inevitably seep through, pain and dirt will smear across the
surface and the grief and rust must corrode all in its path.
Madison
is a sketch in an artist's pad. A series of lines, somehow holding
themselves together in the form of a human body. She is unravelling,
losing her shape and focus, willing to dissolve. The features have
almost completely disappeared from her face, as has her ever-changing
fractal light.
I
see black, grey and white.
Lines
of disbelief and shock swirl around her skin, creating a weak shell
that cannot survive the torrent.
