All the time it takes for a night to pass
And a lifetime grows as the day comes down

Strangeness in Reflections

I am not sure what to think of myself anymore. Today I opened up my portfolio, full of the past and my life as an artist. Or rather, the time when I thought of myself as this. I suppose I still do think of myself as this, at least when I am feeling wishful. I haven't created something that reflected back at me for nearly 4 years. It seems everything I have made as of late have been silly things that I don't take seriously and thus remain continuous and I unfulfilled.

I wonder if it is just me that has resulted in this out come, or if many of my peers have ended up the same. I think of the people I respected as artists and I can't tell if they are the same as I or if they are still trying. My whole human life before art school was filled with forming my identity as an artist, and in my life after art school I have become fearful of being so. Maybe it was how I broke into pieces, maybe I just lost that piece when I was reassembling myself. Maybe I am just so scared of falling back into those pieces. When I think back on me making anything all I can recall is that gnawing feeling at the pit of my heart, that feeling that turns roaring as you work on something. It's that need to get what is inside of you out so you can see it more clearly, but that thing inside of you just gets caught somewhere at the back of your throat, just tickling the beginnings of your tongue, just stuck there. I have never completed a single piece, I have always stopped right before its end. Everything I have made is just suspended in time by fear. Most of who I am is the same.

I still feel the need to make, to turn myself inside out. Maybe that is what an artist is. I really don't know. I know a part of me has died, or maybe is just sleeping. I know that without that part I can't be certain of what is real and what isn't. I know I am more alone because of this part being dormant. I know that I am in no way less of myself because of it, but I am often mistaken in thinking this is not me at all.

When I boiled it all down to nothing the same damn pot was on my stove.

Collecting Losses

Suddenly you are walking away and your head turns to glance at me over your unfamiliar shoulder
Hands reaching to grasp another, far too far to reach
Words falling short of 4 ears, breathing in nothing, saying nothing
a feeling deep at the pit of my stomach, tearing everything up
Making thoughts so close only hours before in another damn galaxy
Untouchable as you are, what else can I do?
Desperately grasping, nothing nothing nothing.
You are not anyone else, you are you, you are not going to do what they did
To me you have to be different, but those fears, these fears, they are all the same as before.
Suddenly you are walking away, but how could you be walking away when you were never really walking toward me?
My arms and hands too heavy to even lift a needle and thread
Empty promises, empty notebooks, empty lines
I asked myself why, and thought "because you let me"
My mouth kept forming a word that my ears feared to hear,
Every time, tears, but the best kind
Reminding, reminding this is just me.

A Future Memory

Inside a dusky twilight
Dug into/between fraying mountain silhouette
Resting on a faded grey sky
Soon a new night will fall down around you
Wrapped in the heavy scent of wetted pine, you lay
the ground holding your head calm,
fulled up with uncertainty,
your eyes blink heavy.
"It has gone" she whispers,
It has gone, you know.

"I’m a slow mover
I’m the best laid plans
And alone at the end of the day,
I just sit with my head in my hands"

with love wrapped around my head like a crown of clover

the air is cool as it sifts between our houses
soft shadows and flashes of light move along the length of my body and cross my face
Spring whispers in my ear that yes, yes, something is new again
but what it is i don't know.
my skin is alive and my breath is light
a strange hope never hoped before softens my eyes and mouth
freshly green leaves are shaking above the cars that pass like waves
my mind is evaporating into clouds drifting, drifting past
i am reaching out to grasp something that can not be caught,
and so i find myself weightless along with it
my heart is made of dust
everything has taken root except for me
everything is growing into something else
and i am just here to see it and love it and look up, up, up, and then past.

this

inside of this quiet world of wordless thought
i am certain i am the only thing left awake
but the walls creak and they ache as i rest
against the clouds and the air, the night is gliding by
above trees waving, shifting, swaying with their leaves
shining behind the clouds a star spins and disappears
orion leans against a roof and i smile
how blue the dark sky appears against glowing leaves
the wind is a voice as it whispers through these
a police siren moans, the night breaks completely, a phone rings
through a window, a voice speaks "i lay down on the floor..."
a car door opens but i can't hear it close
my blanket hangs loosely and the lamp light pierces it
i stand with my shadow on the wall, which reminds me
the only certainty left is
this is this is this is

i might have drowned but i held my breath and kicked my feet and moved my arms around.

there are days when i am quite certain that my heart is going to fall right out.

lately, days have been going by without me noticing a thing. i lay in bed at night and try to recall a beautiful thing that happened but only the mundane and the usual, the steady tides and the setting suns reveal themselves to me. i can't even remember a beautiful thing that i saw this week, or the past 14 days, or perhaps more. if there is nothing to recall then there is nothing to learn from, nothing to gain, nothing to ramble on about. not so long ago i believed it was only passion and ruination that could inspire me to evolve, but this mediocrity fuels me more than anything else ever has. the more quiet my life becomes the more effort i put into building my escape-boat. the destination it will bring me to is still unknown but the drifting between there and here is the only beautiful thing i desire to see.

can hope ever be separated from fear and doubt?