As I open my eyes, I sense the dark and ominous aura. There is a dim and unpropitious feel yet the murkiness solaces me. It feels like a safe haven, where I can be myself without any safety, where the abnormal becomes the normal. Looking around, it is as grey as ashes, a place of refuge, where I can act naturally with no wellbeing, where the unusual turns into the typical. Glancing around, it is just about as dark as it remains; however straight ahead is a light, this light is my mom's arms engulfing me, the suspicion that all is well and good I can't deny. To the extreme left is a sorry excuse for a man leaving an entryway. He is by all accounts climbing into the light. Gracious, How I can't help thinking about what that light feels like, it is presumably not the same as that delicate glowy light that helps me to remember my mother. Looking around this space, I see gizmos and gadgets that glide the dome unconsciously, it seems like ballet. An expressive dance or something to that effect, they are moving turbulently however it meets up flawlessly in a somewhat sensitive sense. But looking down I gasp at the realization, there is a tear. The dancing gizmos are tearing the floor apart, it's sharp and hazardous, it's nails. The warmth isn't warm anymore. No, it was never warm, it was cold, frigid even. My teeth chatter as I stand on the seemingly ripped floor. I tried to look up for that warm light but that warm light has gone. Gone with the warmness, it is presently a brutal and cold light. It's not glowing even, it's pulling everything in, a whirlpool that is sucking the light and the objects out the room. Maybe that man was right, I should have left through the door since the moment I saw his shadow disappear. There is more murkiness than I envisioned, the dimness that is shaping into chunks of despair. Of course, it is darkness, it is the unconscious, where the darkest of our secrets live on, a place that is never meant to be seen, for it may seem comforting but it is a hug waiting to strangle you.
What do you think? This is actually a subjective analysis I did on a painting called Portrait of Juan de Pareja, the Assistant to Velazquez, 1960 by Dali.
