i am writing a book. i mean this in a very pretentious way. because, let's be honest, everyone is pretentious and i certainly have a right to be every once in a while. i do not pretend that i know the first thing or the second thing or even the fifty-sixth thing about writing an actual book, but goddamnit i am writing a book. i have been writing it since may of last year, but it has been in the conceptual stages for a good three years now. the story is vague and lacks cohesion and structure, but reading over what i have already written consistently tears me apart. and, from there, i have no idea who or what i'm writing this for.

because of that fucking line, "life is so goddamn romantic when you write it down," but the seconds just evaporate and are worthless when you leave them to their own devices, without any medium except for memory. i feel this constant need to rip out a part of me (a physical part) and just leave it somewhere to be pondered over. a part that still feels and lives who i am, but from it pours out colors and shapes and sounds. myself, my body, as art. i am frustrated and i try too hard to make these things - everything. fucking everything. songs and pictures and photographs and words and it's all too much, but it never seems to be enough.

i am so frustrated as an artist, or not as an "artist," because i always said that i wasn't. and i don't think i am. i feel like an honest to god sham at times. but i catch myself in arrogant postures, saying "yes, i am an artist, i know what is aesthetically pleasing. step aside young sir/madame!" and i want to step outside and scold this line dotted version of myself for being so abrasive and confident. because it's a lie. it's a boldfaced lie.

i like what i do. but i hate it, also. i want to destroy everything and i want to create everything. i want the world to be a beautiful place and i want to stand in astonishment of it all once again. no more of this sleepy eyed apathetic bullshit. i want love. i want it to be that simple. i really do. i want my art to be an afterthought - like leaving pounds of artistic, cathartic flesh on walls and carpets and eyes wherever i go. and hearts, or whatever. and hearts. if i can carve myself into your heart, some pressure will be relieved.