A pulse

Things are pulling at me from all kinds of directions. Expanding and contracting, pushing trying to get something out of me. What is it that pulls and tugs at me, which compels me to even move? What is that drive, that desire to create, to see and be seen, to speak and be spoken to, to feel and be felt. What is the intention of desire, to possess to capture something which can never last?Are artist just collectors of the past, living cameras with pictures? This on going MESS of imagery saturating my eyes, my thoughts, my mind, my being, my body. It's some kind of torture and eternal struggle between my eyes and my mind and my head and my heart. All these names of different things that all tell me the same thing. Repeated until the point of exhaustion and absurdity. To where everything defies explanation. What happened to the mystery, that innocence i once possessed about the world? I've tied it down. Denied it room to grow. Possessing it without reverence or concern for the possessed. Eternal return. Everything repeats. Days do seem infinite. Is life only finished through death? I think some artist are saviors, not in a holy all redeeming, sin saving sense but in the sense of collecting a moment and suspending it in time and in peoples mind for a period of time. Artist are continually reflecting back the information currently being received and perceived from society and reflecting it back to the public eye in a preposterous yet thoughtful and sometimes profound way. What can be worst in the publics mind than the death of a star. The tragedy of the death of a star. A star is born. A star dies. Why must we have this desire to be like stars. The irony of celebrity. We look up to the stars. I try to look up to the ones above my head but the ones on the magazine seem so much closer to me! Some people must have gotten their priorities misplaced somewhere along the way. Figuring out the game of word play, mistaking one thing for the next. Something ever present but ever so far removed. What is this affinity towards that which can never be touched and never forgotten called; Love?

I think

We were put here To watch things grow.

Remember

that time when you said, "Let's make a mess."

Let's make a mess.

Remember. That time. When you said.

Remember, That time, When you said...

Remember that time.

When you said.

I do.

The void

Some people express things so well, and sometimes I feel like I am not one of those people. I often find it difficult to find words that truly express an experience which really defies explanation. I see it as someone grasping for something which can never really be reached. It's beyond the realm of linguistics. Language is a craft like any other and can be molded in any way you choose, yet it's the most delicate of crafts because it is so fleeting and at times completely inaccurate. The only way i could ever accurately describe anything I'm ever trying to relate to you would be if you could see the world as I've seen it through my own eyes and experiences since birth. So how can i ever be sure that the person, in that moment, listening to my words, is feeling the full intention and meaning of the words I'm choosing to relate to them. It's an understanding which has made a tremendous mark but lacks the ability to be completely defined. It's a void, but not a void as in a cold, dark,
hole... But a void as in an all in composing experience. A void to me is something that grasps you from every direction or dimension. So really when i'm trying to explain my experience with you what I'm essentially doing at that given moment in time is swimming in the void while simultaneously trying to catch a fish. I'm learning more and more that words are a very powerful form of energy. They're a tool that can easily take energy away from a person, or as in agreement, can be shared and mutually appreciated. So i feel that it is important to choose your words wisely because your words are a part of your craft.