I’m confused in a fundamental way. One you can’t avoid by sleeping. I want something so badly, and I’m caught between being vulgar and poetic. I’m a mess. And I mean nothing by that. I’m okay. I really am okay. There are people much worse off and I don’t claim to be suffering anything unique — on the contrary. I am so incredibly mundane and I don’t think I’m better than anyone. Shit or art is a matter of perspective, and I prefer to assume the worst with the hope of being pleasantly surprised.
There’s this peculiar state of mind I always find myself halfway in. I know I’m there because I want to do something reckless. I want to immerse myself in the whirlwind of physical pleasures and mindless, meaningless romanticization. And I want someone to see the shit I make and call it art.
I’m getting dumber. All the time. My blood is polluted with heavy hormones and I feel myself becoming less self-aware. Thinking less and doing more. The less I think, the better I feel. I want to be a fool. I don’t care. I want to indulge. I feel like ripping at the seams and just laying in a rotten heap on the floor. I want to rot. To pollute my lungs and spill sludge from my lips. I don’t want to be anything, let alone realistic.
Talk to me. Validate me.