This is the beginning.

When I cannot undo what it’s been done, I try to contain the sour sensation of loss and victimization, and realize that it’s not fair to harbor intolerance, cherish prejudices, and defend ideas until the extreme. It’s not a scape. It’s non- resistance.

What happens when you love someone, you give them the power to break your heart, you trust them that they will not break it, but they do break it in the end anyway. How many strikes is it going to take until you walk away? Why do we cling on ‘profoundness’ or ‘depth’? Why don’t we just walk away? I’ve done it, I did it, and I walked away, and I couldn’t be happier about it, without a shadow of regret.

As I imagine it has happened to everyone, I’ve been tossed and washed by other people’s loathsome words a few times over. Luckily, not too many times, although the intensity of those moments feels overwhelmingly wounding. I have always found strength in absolutely believing that the person who argues is always less, always, drowned by doubt, asphyxiated of vitality. That person must feel important of his/her progress toward negation. I simply stay out of that second-rate way.

It’s really tragic that ethical social principles don’t accumulate over generations. It seems that whatever new our generation brings, it’s put forward only by trampling on what was unique in the preceding generation. Every new human conquest has become a hollow affirmation, based on a loss. We are something new only by exclusion.

Someone made you who you are today. You are the result of someone’s actions, someone’s deeds, someone’s mistakes. I don’t think it’s always a good idea to give yourself too much credit. You’re not on either a pedestal or a rabbit hole. The context of our megalomaniac paroxysms has a starting point on someone else.

When something or someone, including myself, break my right to expect an outcome, the shock comes with a sense of suffocation. The vaporous ideal feels like dry eyes: no tears or laughter come out. Choosing a new expectation seems so absurd at first.

I don’t think someone can create indefinitely. Sometimes I see artists giving expression and meaning to things that are already exhausted. I think we’ve all done it. In a way, it is expected from artists to do the same thing over and over and over. That is decadence. I admire some people that try to awaken from this productive hypnosis. They want to live because they are defying decadence. They are defying decadence because they want to live.

We live in idolatry of Disaster. We act sometimes like mere puppets stuffed with stubborn and argumentative red cells, who love to birth history by disgust. We secretly adore Disaster and dread adapting ourselves to the possibility of Hope. That’s why touchy-feelings bother some people.

As an artist, I realized that when there is an excess of subjectivity, that leads to either an unbearable megalomaniac state, or a path down to self-denigration. I see it on other artists as well: either they love themselves too much, or they hate themselves too much. It’s exhausting.

The fall from a moment of mundane vagueness into a whirlwind of feelings sometimes is steep and sudden, and messy. Despite the anxiety, I think those moments of absolute confusion provide things that really matter, like renewed expectations, and a sense of real hope. Too bad we forget those so soon.