If you wonder why I stand like this, it’s because I have fear dripping from my fingertips. I am scared of the future but I’m not ready to fall back just yet. In some moments I just am.
I started this DTS with fighting through some things, realising and getting closer. And now I feel sort of fine. But also stirring. Something is moving, God is stirring something in my soul, I think he might soon set fire to my bones.
(I fight through I fight through I fight through)
For our art assignment we’re supposed to make someone into a superhero, I thought I’d do a couple pages of a comic book for my person AND I HAVE A NEWFOUND RESPECT FOR COMIC BOOK ARTISTS. Dang. I’m sketching up ideas and just starting to realise how much time this is actually going to take.
It’s a lie that to create something beautiful, some part in you has to be broken. But I don’t know that. Because I have a twisted perception of what beauty is.
That’s easier, that’s smaller, and sadness fits. It fills my heart up from the inside instead of existing around it the way my happiness does. It’s small enough for me to hold its definition in my hands even though I don’t know what it is.
(I just finished reading Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira and it was small but quite deep and I fell down)
I stayed behind yesterday. We went downtown to have a photoshoot and I stayed when my friends went back. I walked around in that detached-from-reality kind of way and looked at how the city I stay in looks like a postcard. Clear skies and shiny metal buildings and palms and palms and palms, sun that makes your face melt off.
Then I sat down on the rocks and was happy.
And this might sound sad, but I loved going to a sea that wasn’t full of memories. In Sweden it’s tiny towns and cozy houses and driftwood, people with wrinkles too deep, an ocean that slowly breaks everything. Here everything just is. No childhood memories. Just sturdy rocks and people dancing.
The bridge before I ran over it.
The bridge after I ran over it, resting on a bench in the shade. My face was so red people gave me worried glances when they saw me.
My postcard wish is that you don’t send me home.
(Also, backstage from the photoshoot..:
wow)
She hated flowers. Held in her hand she would look at them when she received them for achievements or performances, she’d smell them and then she’d dry them so that they wouldn’t die.
I think about these things a lot.
People are creatures of skin and bone and puzzle pieces, and something’s always broken. They’re searching everywhere for the missing pieces, in broad daylight and neon in darkness, of darkness and of the truths or whatever parts of it they can find. There was a woman whose father was the big puzzle solver and he would hand her pieces at the right time for her to have them, he would heal whatever part of herself was a mystery, complete and build up until she got closer to him.
I think about these things a lot.
We’re cracks in concrete walls and wrinkly shirts and unmatching sunsets under blemished sky. But her room was filled with the dried flowers. And when her father saw it he stopped in the doorway and lost his smile. He asked her where the puzzles where and she looked down, saying that she was almost done. Lifted a hand that was almost covered, soon strong enough to reach out with. He tilted his head.
”I will be a good example.” she said, ”I will show other people what an end result can look like.” She would help them find their pieces, show them what they were looking for, answers for what didn’t fit or form the right pattern. A piece from her hand fell and she looked at him.
”See? It’s not finished. Can you just help me a little more?” and he reached out and removed anything that ever covered her and she fell with it.
I think about these things a lot.
The things weighing you down are dust and wind with a different sense of gravity imprinted as a lie in your mind. And she rolled away from it, sitting up, looking as the father put the pieces together on the floor.
”That’s where you’re supposed to make puzzles.” he said. Looking at the images starting to make sense and everything fitting together she got scared. The turn away from mirrors kind of scared, the open scared because you have nothing between you and it and she didn’t even know what she looked like anymore so he put her in front of a mirror, bumping her with his elbow.
I think about these things a lot.
”See, you kind of look like me.”
Befriend artists, they’ll spend half an hour creating Instagram aesthetics with you
And then you’ll dance together on the beach
I could get used to this kind of January.
eirians 