He grew up in a small town where the streets felt too narrow for his dreams. He explained to me that every night, he sat on the edge of his bed, strumming a battered guitar that knew all his secrets. He wrote songs about oceans he’d never seen and cities that glowed like constellations. People said travel was impossible for someone like him, but he held on to hope the way two year olds hold on to their mothers.
He told me there was coming a day when he would graduate, hop a bus with nothing but a backpack and a melody, sing his songs to the world, and listen for what the world would sing back to him. I hope he’s doing that. And I hope that whatever that song was that the world sang to him was just as lovely as his voice to the world.
4” x 5”. Oil on 100% cotton paper.
He grew up in a small town where the streets felt too narrow for his dreams. He explained to me that every night, he sat on the edge of his bed, strumming a battered guitar that knew all his secrets. He wrote songs about oceans he’d never seen and cities that glowed like constellations. People said travel was impossible for someone like him, but he held on to hope the way two year olds hold on to their mothers.
He told me there was coming a day when he would graduate, hop a bus with nothing but a backpack and a melody, sing his songs to the world, and listen for what the world would sing back to him. I hope he’s doing that. And I hope that whatever that song was that the world sang to him was just as lovely as his voice to the world.
4” x 5”. Oil on 100% cotton paper.
