You have to try to understand what it’s like to write. I look at the world and there are so many beautiful things, but it’s like my hands have been sawed off, and the only way I can connect with or communicate the intricacy is by rubbing those bloody stubs across canvas and calling them paintbrushes. It’s a vision of the art that I would so readily create, but I’m inept and it’s fucking torture, but I do it anyway. It’s a struggle so visceral, so raw, I can only survive it by painting endlessly, the dry layers leaving dense, crimson streaks across my forearms; and all this time I’m begging to be held. Please! Someone look at me! Someone see the insanity happening in the vastness, see the canvasses rooms and rooms deep, and look at how hard I’m trying still, just to get some sleep! Anyone, please! Doesn’t anyone know what it feels like to see details, and be trapped inside clumsy hands? Doesn’t anyone know what it feels like to know the contours, but be robbed of the means to recreate? Someone rescue me from this fucking endless nightmare! In my head I am creating a masterpiece, and here, in the world, it seems all I do is leak. Words are the residue on the underside of the canvas, tucked back in shadows behind the distress, and yet for some reason, words are the only part of all the hell that I can get out.
November 23rd, 2014