I have come to see art as some kind of documentation of self in moments of one's life.
And during that time, I was deteriorating, I still am deteriorating.
The difference now?
Well, I am five months post partum. I am not quite sure when post partum ends, if it does.
Unless it is just a made up term created to give people permission to treat you as if your humanity has ended, just like the excuse of life begins 21 weeks into pregnancy.
Beginnings - guaranteed. Welcomed. Anxious.
Peaks - Confidence. Flow. Internal bliss.
The End - transition. Give to receive.
In betweens - purgatory, maybe.
In speaking spades and love, is where freedom is mined.
And freedom is only the shell of real relationship.
With self. With others.
Who is this person coming out of these words?
Because all I feel are the in betweens cloaked in fake endings.
Unless I am deafened by my misery.
Unless this anxiety paralysed my sight.
Unless my emotions are gripped by the enemy.
Here we are, here I am, the I I know.
And so the spiral opens, extends into the downs.
Beginnings - guaranteed. Welcomed. Anxious.
Peaks - Confidence. Flow. Internal bliss.
The End - transition. Give to receive.
In betweens - purgatory, I hope not.
Feelings - couldn't be real if they're different. Couldn't be different if they're real.
Does that make real a forever format?
Is real a creation for the forever counterfeit?
Beginnings - hazy.
Peaks - blurred.
The End - shady.
In betweens - the same.
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