i have flowers drawn on the space where my wrist meets my hand. trying to give some beauty that is not...
lost my phone last sunday. finally found the song Ive been searching for, but what is the point? my orchids are slowly dying. mayday is six months away in the distant but still not within sight. these are the words my life speaks, as I live it. and they are self melancholic, bitter, and uncaring.
the thought is. i wont be here one day to explain the meaning beyond each constructed word, moment, line, period, phrase, pause and faze therefore i am compelled to record every bit it. being a writer. if only to give myself a richer presence when gone. everyone wants to be remembered, right?
even though the writers intent dont mean shit right now, only after she is dead will truth be constructed. dont really fucking matter when worms are gnawing on her innards what her intentions were when she wrote what she wrote. the thought will be we have this text and must dissect it for our own truths. and truth being really fluid and multiple in this context. the occupational hazard of every artist is, dont expect much understanding when alive.
but i can only make things I understand, I shall only make things I know how to construct however imperfect. writing has so much function in this world and is a form of communication second only to speaking. however somehow somewhere lines blurred, or was forgotten, or disregarded to the point where writers stopped being artists and started becoming communicators. it frustrates me for i am not a communicator
i see myself as an artist. so if you are reading this than, thank you. but since i write just for the sake of writing. i dont really care if you comprehend my words or not. so dont expect anything deeper from the words you are reading, that is not my objective but if you do happen to discover something meaningful, good for you. intertextuality and assumptions has sunken its teeth into the side of your neck and has ripped out your throat. congratulations.