I really need to finish up my little experimental work tomorrow, and I’ve little idea of what I can do, so if I keep working at it and nothing really works out I will fucking destroy my films just to see how far I can get.
self-expression is such a tricky thing to achieve, I don’t even know who I am, I don’t even think there is really anything that matters to me right now. Yes I want to make art, but if art-making keeps feeling like hitting a wall like it does right now, I’d have no other choice. Well part of me just wants to run away from this huge amount of work and my own sky-high standards, to my date’s, and just stay there and make out for the whole fucking day without giving a single damn. I stopped looking for love or even the tiniest bit of affection. It’s not like I really have anyone to run to either, because.. well physical stuff can only do that much. I can have sex a thousand times and still don’t feel any tug of emotion. That’s just how I am, and I’m not sorry. I can try my fucking best to survive in this world or I can just throw everything away, because.. it’s not like anything matters.
But then you kind of look the bastard in the face and have absolutely no idea how you should feel about her, or yourself. Like should I cry because it sounds helpless? Or to use my friend’s words, “a complete surrender”, because I’ve given up on myself and my relationships with others?
I don’t know. If you know me well enough you’d probably know that I don’t know a fucking thing about myself, or anyone else. I still don’t. All I know is that I’m hitting myself against this windowless, doorless cell. And all this is happening without anything mental coming back to destroy me. If it does, I’m really not sure I can keep this up anymore. I mean it’s already hard, and then what happens if one day I can no longer get out of bed, let alone do anything else? Any sign of relapse might be the death of me.
on a slight upside, I think my current affairs are helping me forget some parts of my past, which is good. Except.. you can toy with me, but you can’t love me. Especially for what I am. I’m doing this for you. I think there’s one part of me that wants people to love me, but again, it doesn’t really matter. I’m doing this because that part is unlovable, uncontrollable, desperate, helpless. It’s a black hole and I don’t want to suck you in. So please.
I’m tired. I should be. So I’ll just get some sleep and then get back to the studio. It’s where I belong, at least for now.
Thank you kind anon. Such messages make me glad I have a tumblr. I’m doing okay I guess. Just trying to keep my head above water. There are things here and there, but life’s been tender.
how I love that word
Aaron Siskind（American, 1903-1991）
Peru 222 1983
gelatin silver print
'tis the photo I'm going to write an essay about, by an Abstract Expressionist photographer. There's really nothing much better than this.
I really don’t know how to feel..
Here I am, going through the same shit again, and you can’t begin to imagine how much it reminds me of you.
I don’t even know what to do with this feeling. I just want to kill it, but I might end up killing myself in the process. How do you make something disappear from your world in the first place? How do you stop feeding off your memories? How do you stop sounding like a self-absorbed jackass who takes so much pride in her pain? And how do you stop missing an image that is so engrained in your heart you can’t imagine yourself living without it? How do you know you even have a heart even, or in your chest there is just a black hole that sucks everything in and destroys your mental stability? How do you prevent the darkness from spilling out everywhere over everything you ever come to care about?
I feel guilty when I spend the night with a guy, and I feel heavy as fuck when I’m left alone by myself. I’m not even sure locking myself in the studio can cure anything..
"The Fire That Consumes all before it" by Cy Twombly. My absolute favorite work from Philly Museum of Art today.
#cytwombly #abstract #abstractexpressionism #painting #art (at Philadelphia Museum of Art)
"I wish you never went to the US, or you just shouldn’t come back to Vietnam. It hurts me so much as your friend to see you changing your whole personality. It made you look like a total stranger."
and.. I’m sorry? The US didn’t change me one bit, I changed me. Love changed me. If I’m in any bad place, I brought that upon myself. It is surely not your business to define the way you thought I should be. I messed up, I do that all the time and still doing that right now, but it’s my life and I don’t need anyone to tell me what’s right and whatnot.
.. of course, one thing that might help: I ran away from Vietnam and probably won’t come back for a long while. I’m trying to stitch together bits of myself that remain after what happened during my gap year. It fucking shattered me and I still haven’t gotten over it. Maybe I will never really do. Can’t you see that I’m fucking trying my best right now just to live?
Well and I really think I owe no one an apology for how I chose to survive. Of course that includes you.
Thank you for caring about me enough to confront me about that, and sorry that won’t change a thing.
So long, stranger.
I think I miss Siken. I’m gonna read him again.
And I miss you lots. I want to cry and get really drunk and kill the thoughts in my head all at the same time, because distraction isn’t exactly working, because I don’t care what else.
I should have died a long long time ago.