“To me the medium I display my words with is just as important as my words. I believe art and writing are meant to go hand in hand, as a means for greater understanding. I want the significance of my material, and the power of my words to be felt.”
It’s finally time to stop looking back, where my writing and thoughts have so often been directed, pulled from, curated. There is something comforting about the past: it is finished. November is passing as fast as the leaves are falling off the trees. Time to take care of myself and fall back into the rhythm of things. I don’t have to start reeling through my mind the countless things I’ve learned the past 20 years of my life, which I so often like to do, as it’s so easy for me to look back and remind myself of the work it took to get here. Maybe instead, I can think about me now or me in the future.
My past only casts reflections on me, giving me old answers to new puzzles. 21 is cheers to my new life.
I am not old and dry, turning over a new leaf. I am growing younger with every step forward, putting my face towards the sun, encouraged by an inner drive like water, pulling itself through my stem and letting me dazzle with life. Every day I will grow younger, able to reach new parts of myself and my world.
I can't even cry because the emotions would be too heavy to carry and the days between white walls have washed emotion away As I wait for the next meal, a blankness blankets the day As I heal from every interaction it feels like a ripped off band-aid As I yearn for solitude
And this is the only place I can be completely real Instead of picking through unharvested thoughts thinking of pasts, futures, missing the now and still, I'm waiting for things to feel.
I see angles. Sharp ones, soft ones, patches of shadow as the sun rises for the triangle days of waiting: For the rare comings and goings of people, so we have somewhere to go in our minds. Dreaming. Boats of balconies sailing through sky, where clouds are left unharmed. Angles floating through windows and my door, unlocking a sanctuary to let in a little bit of heaven, 6 o’clock songs, voices bouncing between buildings, mingling with the birds, washing away the static sameness of the days, like waves and pulling you into life once again.
A piece of paper, pinkish, on it written some aspect of our lives. It was found deep down, under all those layers of thick skin that took us years to build, under blood cells moving through our veins. It was found beneath muscle, bone, and the breath that kept our body moving. In fact you couldn’t even see it. The paper was invisible to modern microscopes it was so small, and yet there it rested, just a small shredded piece of paper, pinkish. It was a small shred of doubt, a love letter, laying underneath these layers of human, and something about its presence told us to observe ourselves from afar. It seemed godly, an out of body experience, and finally we could see what was written on that tiny paper through our plain eyes. And whether the meaning of it’s words began to fade or become more saturated, we started to see the larger picture around us, and for the moment, it saved us.