Sometimes it doesn’t hurt.

Where does my happiness come from? And my sorrow? And all the mementos to mark the time in-between?
They are all just memories. Things to which I give the most importance though they are faithless in their service, bending to the will and want of my emotions.
What better life can I live than one simply lived? Moments achieved with no intent to remember, so they might be unaffected by my future observations.
I want out of this loop.

Everyone feels so far away.

Tonight is full of optimism. Beautiful scenes are painted in front of me, moments passsing as sunsets in my memory. Colors mating as lovers long separated.
I am surrounded by friends, though not super close, they show concern and affection. Emotional ties. Recognition. We all seem lost and surprised at our own successes, each of us astonished by the things in which we are inexperienced. Validation through ignorance, and love.
I feel light. An easiness that was forgotten through the constant weight of my bones. Everything here is happy and relaxed. Music, it seems, has taken ahold of my spirit.
Will I ever settle? Pick a theme and a moment to live the rest of my life through, mastering the nuances of a single pursuit? I think not. I think life is better spent in chaos and experimentation. Eternally discovering our own ignorance so that we might explore its limits — diving into the sludge of inexperience. This is how we learn to walk and dance and love. What better approach to have toward the whole of our lives.

I am happy today. Right now. This moment standing alone in a room writhing music, frantically tapping on the glass.

We are terrible and ugly creatures, buy still we dance and sing and laugh for no good reason, and it has restored my faith in living.


Scientific engravings from 1850

by John Philipps Emslie

(via the Wellcome Collection)

(via freshphotons)

All of the words I have right now are terrible.  They are dark and empty remnants of things not yet far enough away.  Shallow echos of a damp city ally still radiating the smell of last night’s vomit.  

Nothing feels pleasant to read.  Nothing feels pleasant to write.  Nothing feels like anything but distance — though, I have been laughing more lately.

If this period of chaos is a metric for the things to come, I am unsure of my ability to succeed in this world.


study for large painting, one of the four/five elements, gouache, 2014 inkhead

(via mucholderthen)

[I did not draw this. It was drawn by artisawindowwasher.]

I am most certainly what most people would consider to be depressed.  That is, I have a deep conflict within me.  A sense that there is an existence that is more meaningful and productive than what is advertised, which is pushing against the reality of daily life.

I would not consider myself to be unhappy, or to be under the clutches of some unalterable condition, but that I recognize my own worth — a fact that makes me feel crushed under the immense weight of responsibility.  

My emotional difficulties stem from the idea that I have more to offer this world than the average person.  A realization that has come to me not of my own image of grandeur, but from the echos of those surrounding me — from a thousand praises of my radiant and beautiful potential.  From being told a thousand times that I am failing myself, and this imperfect world. 

My depression comes from being able to understand the beauty in everything I see, which alternately shows me the depravity of the way things are.  One cannot see the darkness without first knowing the light, so they say.   But I am left feeling that there is more darkness than light if I am somehow special because I posses the ability to think for myself. 

There is nothing special about me.  I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.  I do not want this label.  I do not want this responsibility for success.  At times, I do not want this kind of insight. 

If ignorance is bliss, what is knowledge? 

Why even try to understand this life if all we get is confusion and broken hearts?

This is so far away from everything I’ve wanted to say.

Everything is beautiful and empty.

I have been waiting for the stream
to cut me through. A division
of myself. New ground created
through distance from the past.

Though I am still waiting,
I can feel the canyon’s winds.
There is the smell of fresh grass
and adventures that tease
my heavy feet.

I am too impatient to build
bridges, but I am willing to test
the waters when the river slows
— or to be carried downstream
if needed — to find the shore.


WIP. The background is done, It looks cool with the white drawing, but I think it’ll look even better with color. Mixed media. 11x19”

(via scientificillustration)

I want to write beautiful things but everything about me feels dirty and rotted. I have no clear sense of self, and it seems that I am pushing everyone in my life far away from me out of a need for isolation.
I don’t know whether I believe that I am insulating myslef from them, if I am creating distance to make a clean break, or if I feel that I am somehow infectious or undeserving of close interaction.
All the people who I have opened my heart to in the past few years, save one, have either sucked it dry with vampiric precision or found nothing in it worth having. I feel quite unwanted and unappreciated by others, though not by myself.
Part of all of this is that I need to get away, and I have kept an intentional distance from anyone new entering my life. A lot of self sabotage in order to act as a catalyst for the act of abandoning my home.
I need to lose myself to this world, and it is so easy and comfortable in this town. I have never known any true hardship other than that of a broken heart and an injured body. I feel that I am waisting my potential and abilities in a place that recognizes and supports them without question. I am sick of the constant praise and admiration from everyone around me, and everyone I meet — not that it is unwanted, but that it feels false and undeserved. The praise used for children, and the elderly, upon repeating their own name.
My life feels empty and unchallenged, a light fog compared to the thunderstorms of history, and I feel that is a disrespect to the gift of existence to live so easily.

Pretty recently I shut you out of my life. I am so sorry.

I know that it seems extreme. You are my best friend and I have excommunicated you with little to no explanation. I hope that you don’t think that it is because my friendship was ingenious, a veil for the purpose of courtship, or that it is because I am offended by you.

The truth is that you are too beautiful to me, and I cannot help but fall in love with you every day.

I am crushed under the weight of not kissing you. I am suffocated by holding confessions inside. It makes me crazy to be next to someone who keeps me so far away.

I have washed myself of you, and there is nothing left-over. Just this skin, these bones and muscles, eyes with nothing to look for.

I miss you every moment.

And though I am nothing without you in my life, at least it is now my life.

Good luck, duder.

“Sisyphus, your
suffering is not eternal.
Your stone will
wear down the mountain, or
the mountain will wear down your stone.”
— wow I like this (via inkstrangle)

(via iamreallyseriousthistime)

blastedheathefedraAntero Kahila (Finnish, b. 1954), S-BIID 2, 2012. Oil on canvas, 255 x 270 cm. via


(via felixinclusis)