A painting can be a page on which to examine and maybe disrupt the syntax of thought: the pink is coming going looking, the yellow could be said to be going nowhere preening.
If reading is dark, I mark to sense. Thinking comes before making then comes through form -- fragments using themselves, “not depicting" -- the site of a swerve or a fold, the force of an edge that looks as if no hand made it. Something clean-edged asserts and later a shaky hand or a shadow, body-based, cast by its own interior.
two tiny aqua shapes resemble a pair of sunglasses or maybe a bra
thin black lines and a small square could be a face, a banner, a profile or a shield
The picture is not the wish. Wish, so light a word it hardly stays on the page where it is written. The place beyond which words become limit.