Routine is nothing I’m good at. You wake up and do the same things and see the same things and start to even fucking think the same things. And with that mind-frame, there is no venturing outward. It’s a constant trip towards everything of no variety. You sit and look pretty and melt and die and are reborn again. In fact, your skin becomes nothing more than old, flaked paint.
Music transports you elsewhere though. It’s easy enough to listen to, and feel your limbs get enlivened. It’s easy enough to go ahead and say there’s a silly amount of self-worth in the appreciation of everything good. But to take part and get charged with electric energy that just doesn’t exist elsewhere, is when you are your own musician. It is then that you are everything your heroes were. You just need to know that better. You need to believe it and ROAR.
I see a lot in photographs. And I’m not talking about those ones you can hold in your hand, like a tangible little snapshot, that’s got colored hues and whispery clues towards the past. I’m talking about those mental images you keep stocked away in your brain. I’m talking about all those storms you let carry you towards enlightened euphoria. The ones that just sort of reach you.
Today I was anchored well in coffee and misty thinking had towards writing. Because it’s not enough to want to be a writer or a photographer or an artist. You need to go forth and think yourself good enough to succeed at most anything in life. You need to march onward and jump off cliffs. Ones that promote the willingness to get shit done. And the more you move your fingers, and the more you uproot yourself, and the more you get busy, the more you are your dreams, and your dreams are something of some peace then.