I think what it all boils down to is a matter of wanting to shed this skin so I can become the man I was meant to be.
Lately I’ve gotten into the habit of taking long walks at night by myself. I just block out the world around me and let the music do the talking.
I’m also scared of what I’ll see when I do finally doze off. The dreams have become intense and often follow me into the waking world.
Blistered feet make every step an act of penance.
I wanted to make art. Something dirty, honest and fearless. I wanted my work to have depth and texture.
If I could do this full time I would have no complaints, but I can’t because it is unable to bring any money in Our society isn’t made for free thinking artistic types.
A vast majority of the people I’ve known have told me they don’t like to be around me because I’m a downer. Here’s the thing; while they get to walk away…I’m fucking stuck with myself.
When most people think of art their minds probably conjure images of paint splashed upon canvas. I’m much more interested in experimenting with ink and the written word carved into loose leaf.
I didn’t want to merely sever the ties which are keeping me here; I wanted to reduce them to ashes and cinder.
Reading my work after it’s been typed loses almost all of its emotional resonance for me. The cold, soulless fonts, mixed with going by my middle name allow me to disconnect with the material almost entirely. This is not the case if it’s still written in my script. Each word maintains its weight and power.
End of Act III
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