Alyssa Gafford-Gaby

The year the world couldn't get out of bed. Alyssa Gafford-Gaby

It is remarkable how much one person can change with the seasons. One moment you're finger painting in June. And by January all that is left is streak marks. As you are dragged away from what once felt beautiful. We age in mysterious ways. And bloom in even stranger ways. We dance in our allusiveness. And cry in our aloofness. But our fingers still patter on the pages. Making a somewhat distorted yet meaningful picture. Because what doesn't make sense to another Is what makes up one's composition. These are my prints. My marks. My lifelines. My DNA. This is what I get out of bed for.