Je t'aime. | There is the interminable silence of not having...

There is the interminable silence of not having what is tangible, but that’s okay because the art is something that lives forever. What kills though, is the non-entity of just being air. You are there, and you are real, but you are never felt by the person you desire most. Instead you are a resting spirit and idea that burns in their imagination. And yes, while that cultivated fruit is something joyous, something fantastic, it can’t be carried in the way a moment can. I mean, is it jealous to want more, when you have so little? Is it this that makes love greedy? Does expectation always have to badger the heart with denial?

I’m ashamed of falling back into this horrid routine of depression and anxiety. There is the admitted guilt of having nothing to offer, and just the same, there is the harp and spoon of trying to transmit a sincere amount of integrity. Somehow the aftermath, is something that crawls up the spine and just coddles. Everything is really very dark and blurred. Storms cast spells.

Nothing about this is being censored and the hands flower as they should. The rocking motion is something I can associate with sex. The euphoria is clear and able and I really do like it. In fact, it is something dirty and gruesome, but that’s nothing to be ashamed of. When I write, I get an erection of assuredness. It makes me feel properly alive and human. And that’s fantastic, that’s great. Because I sure as fuck, don’t want to go feeling completely dead.