I was having a usual conversation with my friend of eighteen years. I first met her in my first year of middle school. I was a new student, dreading the thought of sitting alone—until she walked in, looking perplexed because all the seats were taken.
Yes, I am the wolf who walks alone! I wasn’t particularly kind, but I wanted to be casually and reasonably nice, so I offered the seat next to me. I’m not quite sure who said what first, but I can testify that our friendship is deeply rooted in the quality of our conversations.
We talk about the same things, yet I never get bored, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t either. I haven’t outgrown what we share, but sometimes, I crave conversations with other people, places, and things. My best friend is filled with wisdom—extremely intelligent—and sometimes feels like a thorn in my flesh, but it’s a good sore.
Sometimes, I don’t want to have conversations with people but with places and pieces. Pieces embodied in works of art—pieces that inhale the way different aspects of my life intertwine and exhale a genuine serenity onto me.
I love conversing with their textures and colors and how they come together.
I love how they make the room feel, how the walls don’t close in on me.
How the people don’t suffocate me.
How I don’t choke on my words.
I ask if they have any scars to show, and I stare, awed, because they appear incredibly stunning.
I wonder about the journeys they’ve embarked on to get here.
She hesitated but eventually let loose as I stared deeply into her eyes.
She told me she had experienced many layers—ink, gouache, tempera, and more.
She couldn’t resist the touch of palette knives when she didn’t turn out as expected.
I love conversations—but even more, the quality and sanity they bring.
I love the layers, the colors, the twines, and the way they all come together.
Art piece / Artist: @adjeitawiah
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