Either I’m the master of dumb luck, or my subconscious is a much more thoughtful artist than I am.
Maybe someday my subconscious will be revered as a great painter. Perhaps, years from now, the seemingly nonsensical system that decides which paintings are “great” will somehow latch onto my acrylic-on-canvas dabblings and the meanings that my subconscious inserted so insidiously into them.
The rest of this essay has been taken down for inclusion in my next memoir. Stay tuned for updates.