today i feel so quiet.
i've been painting for hours. simple posters about death and retribution. maybe that accounts for my melancholic mood?
there are things i want to say but i don't know how to say them. i'm not even sure if what i want to say is true. feelings come and feelings go and the memory of a certain night pounds inside my heart. the sound and the rhythm of things which i feel lucky to have known. the center of me aches. the center of me feels cracked and divided.
i feel like a begging dog.
i am here in my white room so far away. no music is playing. my window is open and so is my diary. i listen to the sounds of the street.
we are without cages but distance creates unexpected urges. i hold myself still and bend my head once more to my work. like every other human, i want what i can't have and i fixate on the improbable. my masochism is a very real thing.
i flip through the book i bought the night of my birthday of Terence Koh's work. i look at the images and sigh. the state of longing expressed in his sculptures and performances make me feel as if i have been gutted. desolation is fertile ground regardless of what it may look like. but the need to express such a thing is, itself, a hard thing to bare. it hurts sometimes, this search, this need, this excavation of Self and Place.
i wish i was back in that bar, drinking greyhounds and flipping through these pages there. i try to buck up and keep pushing these small puddles of black gouache, try to keep defining the edges of my heartbroken texts. i spread out and work on the floor. my shoulder burns from hunching over these big sheets of paper.
how can i miss you when i don't even know you?
2 comments:
I think you're craving some physical contact.
that too.
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