Monday, September 21, 2015


i'm not sure i want to show a picture of a part of a painting i seriously took with my phone-camera that i seriously e-mailed to myself to seriously post to my blog that, statistics prove, one out of one billion people look at- only i hold myself down with my erratic performance art (of which i suck the blood which doesn't exist) to appear nigh-technically mastered to myself. it will never happen anywhere else. control is the truth of my identity. the source of it is a dead-end; haunted woods that are the opposite of what i believe to be the truth. forced beliefs, tall tales, make believe stories. enchantments. "no! no! i really was a neglected orphan!" coco chanel will say, who will turn out to be beautiful underneath all her self imposed ugliness. leak existential woe unto, it sure as hell feels more productive than piecemealing away at my work with whom i share a meaningful relationship.

one day, things will seem finished when i finish them. that will be the day i feel my work at which i piecemeal is complete. i won't go through the motions and questions my motives for going through motions on top of it. i won't force a damn thing. i won't be eaten alive by self-attacking dreadfully vicious thoughts. if my head is unbearably loud, i'll be okay with it. if i am afraid to to even try to sit still to do something, i'll be okay with it. i will never worry about how worrying has ruined my life again.