Get out from the walls the tables the floors the electrical outlets. Get out from the continuity of paintings, no beginning and belonging. No middle or returning and no end, rather half finished projects arranged slightly differently every time. Get out from the empty and the safe, see what you want to see when you want to see it. This is your warning sign: get out get out get out.
I’m not interested in those who look happy all the time. What I find fascinating is the authentic, those who look lost in prayer. The angry, worried, sad, and beautiful. The ones who seem funny, too. And crazy. The bite of the lip, the glance or the stare.The way they look when they walk, with people and alone. Imagine what they would have looked like smoking a cigarette – maybe with a smirk, maybe with a book, or the way they always held back their tears. They don’t see themselves the way they are but, Jesus Christ believe me, they look so good on paper.
I wish I could say beautiful words for the ones with soul. A fever. A mistress, the tempered, poets and dancers. You are, I believe, something far more exquisite than beautiful. You do not spend your days deliberating if you are the type that men will burn. Instead, you forgive yourself and refuse to light your lips on fire to make them fuller, cheeks pinker. The type of woman who is willing to climb for a place she can call her own, heart, and home. You’ve realized you had hands and became the type to build it for herself. Rather too simple saying you were beautiful; exquisite is far more fitting.
Note that the air is made up of all kinds of gases. Everyone seemed to be breathing okay, but I had trouble swallowing my regret.
Clenched my fists at the taste of its name – it’s lying it’s lying it’s lying it’s lying