And the poem I wrote this evening is:
I have nothing.
Not even pain.
Immortal beauty washes away my tears.
My perfectionless apathy
gives me some relief.
Ties my heart,
and binds my soul
in ways I promised
I would never be bound.
I am feeling a lot better this evening than I was earlier in the morning. I finally got out some things that I have been bottling up inside of me for so long. I just...I just broke down, and expressed them. It was good for me, but I won't deny I had been trying to avoid this.
I...I just don't know where to begin.
"I don't know."
"That's always what it is with you. You never know."
--Okay, I am going to let you in on a little secret. If I say, "I don't know" it usually means 1 of 3 things.
1) I honestly don't know, or I don't know how to articulate it.
2) I don't want to tell you.
3) I haven't thought about it until this moment, but it will take me a few minutes to figure out exactly what to say, and how to say it.
--I will hardly ever not tell someone something. Depending on who you are, I will tell you almost anything. If you, dear reader, are wondering where I stand, please don't hesitate to ask me.
I suppose the best place to begin is with my books. My journals. I write all the time. My journals are usually black with things written, or drawn on them. Sometimes, glued. I glue things into my books. Usually stamps, the tags from tea bags, and old photographs. I have a thing for a lot of things, and this is just my starting point. This is where I let them come pouring out of me. In one of my journals, May to July, I had printed out "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, and glued it inside of the cover with lots of little stamps. (I am sitting here with my journals in front of me, and I found a page in which I glued a picture of pink sunglasses hanging off of a woman's g-string. I am flipping through, and I said, "What the fuck?!" to my friend Mike, whom I am speaking with. I don't remember doing this.) One of my last journals, the one that was violated, I wrote on the cover "If this was my last chance, on my last day, or my last breath, this is what I'd say..." It continues on the inside back cover with, "Thank you for the laughter, sorry for the tears." For the month of March, I was unleashing myself into a journal I covered with black paper, red and gold swirls on the binding, and a poem in gold on the front:
When I was dancing with you
The sun stole my soul
And the wind wisked me away
The Italian Courtyard
Sang to Us
As Roses Rained From Above
Rene Descartes graces the inside front page with:
"The single resolution to rid oneself of all the opinions to which one has heretofore given credence is not an example that everyone ought to follow."
My journals are my outlet. When everything in my life is going wrong, when I stop caring about everything else in my life, when I have reached complete and total apathy for my existance, I still have my journals to turn to. I desperately want to share my journals with the world. I want to show the world how I feel, and tell them what I love. I want to give them my passions. The world shall inheret my passions when I die, but I want to take them, and throw them into the world. Let the stars play with them. So many people wouldn't even notice if I were to bear my soul. If I ran up to someone and handed them my soul, and my passions on a silver platter, they wouldn't even notice. The select few would. The ones that matter. The ones that care. The ones that I don't regret, and the ones that I love. The ones that make me happy, and content. They would care. And that's the most important part.
My passions stem back to my art. My expression. My soul. My passions are my passions. My passions fuel me. They give me power. It all goes back to art. The urge to express. We all have the capacity to do so, but we don't all utilize it. I care about, and I surrender my soul to the ones that do express. The ones that create art. The ones that are themselves utterly and completely.
My passions are me, my soul, paintings, writings, drawings, and the few select people that I have let into my life. The few people that have gotten a small, tiny glimpse of what I am truly like. My paintings, the act of painting, fuels me. I HAVE TO PAINT. That's just the way I feel. I am addicted. I am hopelessly addicted to the feel of a brush in my hand, a canvas under my brush, and a palette full of colors only waiting for me to dip my brush into them. It is my passion.
Rain. Rain is also my passion. Walking in the rain. No destination. Just to walk. Just to be in the rain, alone, entirely, and completely, alone. With not' but my soul laid out on the table in front of me, and the rain pounding on my back. Walking through a park at night in the rain is true happiness.
Society is another one of my passions. Forgiveness. Hope. Love. I'm a compassionate person. I have met people throughout my life that think it is a flaw. A force to be reckoned with. I am also a very forgiving person. If someone has a good heart, it doesn't matter how fucked up their life is, what their temper is like, nothing. It doesn't matter. If I can see their good heart, I can forgive anything. People fuck up. That's just the way of it. If they did it unintentionally, I can forgive it. I will forgive it. People are instantly forgiven when it comes to me. I can forgive anybody for anything, except myself. I can't forgive myself. I am my own worst critic. I see my flaws, and not my good qualities. When I look at one of my paintings, I see the flaws, and not the over-all composition.
Things come pouring out of me a lot. I don't usually have much control over them. The poem, I wrote last night in Borders. I was asked what it is about. While I was writing it, I had no clue. While I was trying to think of how to best answer that question, I had a slight idea, but I was afraid of what the answer was. I know what it is. It's expression. That's all. I just sat down, and started writing. I felt much better when I was done, that's for sure. I have been needing to get that out of my system. Expression at it's best. I decided that the best thing for me to do would be to explode on the page. Explode myself. I have been keeping things locked away inside of me for entirely too long now. I can't do it any longer. I finally broke down, and let it out. Not all of it. Almost all of it, but not quite. There is still much more to come. Much more to say. Much more that I am feeling, but unsure of how to express in a manner that will do my feelings justice.
"Express yourself totally and completely." --Some of the best advice I have ever recieved. I try. It's not so much failing to do so, but there is so much, and I don't have enough time. I never have enough time. But it goes back to, if I expressed myself, totally and completely, would you listen? Would anybody care? If I poured myself, everything, out onto the table, would anybody notice?
