Growth is Not a Linear

I am eating my feelings with a failed oat milk chocolate pudding. There's some on my face, but at least I managed to keep my white shirt clean. I can't stop thinking that I've been sabotaging myself or at least being too afraid to change. Change or personal growth doesn't magically happen when or the ways in which I want it to. The way to guide it has proven to be wanting it uncompromisingly and fearlessly maintaining awareness. I need to stop writing as if I'm talking to someone else and not my deepest most honest self. I want to change for the better. I want to be fulfilled. I want to be happy, but I'm still trying to figure out what that looks like. 

I Will Become an Artist

Dedicated, but detached;
an accurate description of my life and my art practice thus far.
I am safe in my distance and distractions.
The violence surrounding me in my early life has compelled me to be an architect of layers for the sake of safety.
I don't think I've ever truly let anyone or anything in nor fully committed to any relationship or goal.
I see depictions of passion and pain I feel incapable of.
How can one make art without true passion and true love.
How can one commit without the capacity to lose.
How can one lose without letting something in, letting the love burrow into your heart in such a way that if it leaves, the hole in its place can never be filled in the same way again.
Seeking mimicry and false idols until the soul undergoes a revolution against it, becoming something new entirely.
I want to commit to my art and shed my layers, letting the revolution begin.

Non Mordi!

Sono fortunata che il monde non e\ vendicatavo,
e il monde e\ fortunato che sono il stesso.
Il dolore diventava forte,
ma ero piu forte,
Il dolore diventava veloce,
ma ero piu veloce. 
Lo volevo fermare,
ma la vita puo\ essere tanto piu di dolore,
Piu\ di il sensuale…
e l'ho bisogno di essere vero.

Sono fortunata che il monde non e\ vendicatavo,
e il monde e\ fortunato che sono il stesso.
Perche\ il tempo e\ solo noleggiare,
e non voglio pagare per ogni ora.

Quando Il Vento Viene Ancora

Devo andare al mare,
Dove il sole incontra la sebbia,
Dove le onde di te mi incontra.
Posso sentire la tua voce nei suoni del vento,
Una eco non posso dimenticare,
Sta infestando,
Ma a mi piace. 
Solo posso sperare che loro mi vengono ancora.

Solo Nei Sogni

Tu diventi vero nei miei sogni.

Quando mi sveglio, conosco che ti ho lasciato,

Poi I miei occhi aprono,

Il senso forte rimane solo per pochi momenti ,

Provo tenere la idea pesante,

Ma cade lontano del mio cuore e mio mente.

State of the Union Address

I'm learning to love myself as I learn to love us. By us I mean humanity. By learning I mean that my self-loathing must run deeper than the personal self. And I write in the sense of 'we' because there is so much more that we share than that which we do not.

In the infinitude of variation within and potentially outside of the universe as we know it, we are practically the same or at least never truly far apart. I'm starting to realize that the intricacies and details of our lives are only as important as we think they are. Feeling lonely as a result of a lack of sharing is in one sense delusional. That sense is the fact that our universal sufferings need not be spoken but assumed, once realized.

The weight the nature of existence brings should not be neglected, but the ultimate factor for bonding, a sense of solace in oneness. A unified surrender to these sufferings, the abolition of Buddha's second arrow, might just be the greatest concept of peace in our condition.
Such surrender provides a medium to live in harmony with all else, even within, if not especially within the confines of modernity.

We cannot proceed without the instinct of self-preservation because in our realm, primary existence ends when the existence of the body ends and we have no empirical evidence of otherwise. But beyond such instincts, this surrender saves us all.

A Monday Unlike Any Other

It was finally Friday (he smiled before opening his eyes). Martin shuffled out of bed and up the old spiral stairs to where the unknown awaited his arrival.
No warm smell of coffee or familiar pattering about greeted him, nor did the yellow light of day.
The curtains were drawn and the sala was littered with depression's debris that should have taken weeks to accumulate...
He looked down at his hands and then his wrists to discover tightly wound bandages; shaking and short of breath, he peeled back the tape to find the inexplicable.
Small x-marks of incision revealed that everything inside seemed to be replaced, somehow better, faster, and lighter. He shouted out an otherworldly plea, realizing that no one was around to hear him.
He thought he must still be dreaming; nothing was how it was supposed to be.
Where was Naomi? And Bust? He decided to go back to bed and let the astral fuckery resolve itself.

With the curtains now peeled, it was dark and no one had called about his absence from work. The faded hue of his bedside lamp made it apparent that resolution had never came.

The phone had no dial tone and the cable was only coming through in static waves. He checked his pulse; vascular vibrations offered confirmation without comfort. Martin paced with a frightening emptiness before draping himself with his favorite robe.

The "on" button of the coffee pot glowed with desperation and decency. He felt reassured that something was working as it should. Fresh air beckoned a sense of sanity and with a full mug in hand he was ready to put the pieces back together.

Slowly down the old spiral stairs and out the heavy wooden door, he looked past the patio to find nothing below but the black infinitude of nothingness. He shouted once more with all that he had left, took one last sip, and let himself step over into the abyss.