i am over-saturated, inundated, ready to explode. hoping
to simply overflow, "belly pregnant with hunger" bursting
from desire. beyond the point of no return. i release without
regret. vomit on paper and call it: art.
is anything produced from our self-destructive
personalities, eternally tainted bodies - sacred? pure? even resembling
beauty? or do we only generate waste from
the natural processes of our existence?
nothing of worth comes from me. i contort my corpse to fill
spaces, to make shapes, to move in ways i haven't
yet imagined. i wallow in the despair of my failure. screaming
with sarcasm, i seek to validate my own selfish existence.
but weren't we made for creation? for life? ah yes. that "we"
eludes me in my singular attempts. but who will be my "we"?
who is worthy? who is willing? who is courageous? empty voids
appear. openings to engage in the risky business
of an uncertain, un-guaranteed partnership. a slightly
cocked skeptical head is the best defense. like primates,
they smell your fear. don't show your teeth
or insecurity. be true to all you've learned: the world is built on
lies. growing up means perfecting the art of faking human qualities.
the unnatural editing and filtering of emotions we don't really
feel and thoughts we're afraid to have. adopting inhibitions we can't
question because we're distracted by forced attempts to provide
constant antitheses to prove our rational selves that disregard
shadows of an existential nature. i abhor this unnatural virtual unreality.
but i did always like playing the clumsy, less
effective or aggressive and often disgracefully
unsuccessful princess peach.