The value of patience: we lose sight of what we really believe in and who we are in the tumult of our daily lives. We rather be in the tumult than be patient.
Homogeneous opacity and the rejection of nuances have always been attributed to the ideal masculine cannon. The closer to that cannon, the less one is an artist. I assume the responsibility for its decline.
You don’t understand: any kind of inspiration comes from a state of exaggeration, from a hyperbolic mind. Some people can’t handle that, they get irritated by it. They think artists are charlatans. It’s not that. It’s that the world as we see it seems too small to be used as comparison for how we feel. We need some poetry!
My mind is so soupy and wooden this morning. I’m trying to milk some thrifty tears from somewhere, but I’m afraid I’m just going to sap some enervating ludicrousness. Sometimes, instead of coercing a fruitless dialogue with yourself, it’s better to make some tea and take care of something shallow. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.
The moment a piece of artwork is made known to the world, either to a single person or the masses, it gets judged, classified, put in a box, and forgotten. No one remembers what they had the night before for dinner, because it makes no difference.
These pages are like little paper boats. I make them, place them on an anonymous stream of water, and see them go and disappear. That’s all. Nothing else changes. Nothing else happens. I just repeat it over and over and over again. I don’t know why.
The day didn’t give me much opportunity to rest for reflection, and as a result I am fully determined to say something.
Our frivolous and sudden expressions of emotion demand the context of a burlesque theater, with an audience that must be shocked by our acted anger. What a great performance.
It is a mystery why some mornings we wake up with a heavy hunger to knock down everything, alive or dead. Chores feel like a cereal bowl full of ashes. People feel like wilted plastic flowers left in the elements of an abandoned grave. We resent the weather outside, any kind of weather. Our eyes are tearless. We zoom in our fingernails to tune out. We want to end everything.
There are no more new dawns. We have passed the time when we thought a new beginning was upon us. We are now rushing to study our demise. It’s a new era, the era of self-pity. There are no saviors in the horizon. Nothingness is very familiar now.
After each day we are a little bit emptier, a little bit heavier, a little bit rustier. We’re greeted by another kind of fatigue, just when we thought we were able to forget yesterday’s. We blindly bite into the ground with such absurdity. Repeat.
Solemn whispers determine nothing. they can’t bloom. They are a kind of preposterous metaphor. Everything conspires to harm you and there is nothing you can do against it. Everyone is miserable but just a few know it.
I am rusty, you are rusty, he is rusty. I attempt to plunge to nothingness. I dare you to find something more pathetic. How will you defend yourself? I love Tom, Jack, and Richard, but that doesn’t matter.