i’m suspended like an eagle who’s ended their career in the checkered finish line of a bottom left ear.
honestly, i enjoy writing about the darker underside for a variety of reasons. however, the lure is primarily backed by its open world. hilariously, it’s fascinating to construct a sentence that isn’t supposed to fit in. humored, it’s a trip to say what you haven’t heard.
my focus can often drift in and out. whether that’s an accustomed style i’ve developed or a mirror to my state of mind, i can’t say. if i had to guess, it’s more than both.
i’m surprised to see its effects, which range from writing paragraphs to carrying conversations. the goals are to continue a thought and recall relevant information on the spot. the reality is the thought continues, but the conversation’s context begins to fade, leaving me in a cold pond of dread. “why i am i hearing this?”
maybe that’s a question broader than its use here. it could have benefited my psyche greatly as mediational zen. fillers are rushing in. why am i: here, anxious, eating, tired, stressed, clenching my teeth, in my head, sick, nauseous, craving turmeric, or letting people down.
questions can be lilypads or iliads.
returning to focus, the arts are a wonderland of diversity. all aspirational avenues are complicated and simple simultaneously. it’s a mixture of spontaneity and training dissolving into the artist’s work. think of all the genres, paint types, and words funneled in through their axials and appendages out to creation.
i’m more than mildly curious about what you like to do. i’m wondering about your favorite expressive tool. is your style a brash fist of rude, or are you so selfless that caring is a rule? do you draw or write or sing or move, or are you sucked into the staticity of a frozen internet mule?
how people act is insane. why we behave is intellectual.
quite probably, i’m extenuating traumatic experiences, which wouldn’t be such an awful curse. the memories are still there, but the thought continues on its journey (just like my spaced rapport). as the piece grows, so too do its roots, until both work in conjunction to punch through the compacted soil — a beginning’s ceiling. while our past experiences cannot be changed, how we use them has the plasticity of a smartphone.
somehow, stenciling a discourse of crushed, mangled messes transitioned to positivity. this happens during longer sessions of writing, when i’m able to be in the dim enough to ask the colored blurbs to cease their fireworks. the whole show’s corrupt; they won’t act in goodwill, but they may hypothetically possess a heel of negotiation.
at a certain point, torturously, our hardest moments get harder and solidify into a statued beast. we’ll occasionally visit the museum and admire its beauty, whatever that may be, then leave. exiting may produce side effects of nostalgia, uncontrollable eye perspiration, or relief.
my sculptures are sick jokes.
make me laugh every time.
like a maniac on a tightrope in the middle of an unwind.
– D K T