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I ponder at my wake will there be a summon. Am a conduit of sorts. A mirror to your self. A cast or creed or tribe. A debate in the darkness. Am I a saint or a sinner. A man or a woman. Am I lonely with myself. Is it just the truth of everything that allows me to sit and judge. Am I you. Let go. Let it be.
Nov 13, 2024
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Things seem to pass us by every day, one thing after the next, with any information at our fingertips
It’s time to be more honest with ourselves and those around us. Time will pass by, and the unknown is scary.
One thing I can’t do is lie about who I am and what I am doing. I hope my intentional persistence can ground those around me, even if it is awkward for me
It’s hard being alive, but being alive is the best part.
Jan 23, 2025
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The only one who knows you best is yourself, so give them a chance.
You are the gladiator that rides your chariot into every battle, facing whatever awaits them. You return to your den from battle night after night, bloodied and battered from the wear and tear. When you find yourself shriveled in the darkest corners of your mind, do find this:
”My mind, it plays tricks;
persists; so fickle it can’t pick
-but, within me I must know,
that one day I will glow,
and rise above all I cannot fix”
Jan 8, 2025
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I've deleted Instagram. I'm stretching my ears. I'm making video diaries again. I write for myself only. I'm secluded, quiet, I'm grieving, I'm burying myself and I am being buried and I am attending the funeral. I'm alone in all of this.
It wasn't a new year resolution that led me here. It wasn't therapy or a fortune cookie or anything romantic. But I realize your story only matters if you plan on telling it to someone. Maybe as a response to something, "what the fuck is wrong with you?", maybe an intimate secret, maybe a drunken ramble. I'm done telling stories.
I've been alone for forever. Occasionally someone will drift too close, and I think maybe this time, maybe, maybe... And I'm left scarred, or left quietly, but always left.
Of course I have things to reflect on and things to take accountability for. But I'll be damned if I present my isolation as pure, as if I am a martyr. No, this is not for everyone's safety or my own digestibility. I am bringing the chisel down in sharp downward motions against myself again and again and and I will carve something new from this stone tomb. I'll never be David. I'll never be Michelangelo. But I can be something more than stone.
I am moving on. I don't know to where or to what end. It doesn't matter. Very little does, now. Maybe it always had such little meaning and I was just too close, to desperate, to see that. I wanted so badly to mean something. Even if it was just to be grieved. No one will miss me, now, as it's always been. But I also don't miss me.
Moving on.
Mar 26, 2025
