sleepy walls, and savage.

i'm only an artist when i'm dying. it feels that way. the rush of colours through my bones, that compels me to chaos, tasting sentences and hearing fingerprints. crawling along the roof, thinking of birds and light bulbs. it all builds from something i can't explain, beyond strapping you into my skull. think a mile in my...

i can't be an artist, not technically. not on a technical level. i keep structures, but i can't be one, i can't be a structure. i would try really hard to write when told to write, but i was cavalier, violently. deep cuts of nothing to the paper. Academic, that's what jasmin said. i can't be academic. it's like dyslexia, but swimming in my ears. or that's how it feels. so now, when everything in the world says i am a writer, and i need to write, i cannot. i wish it weren't like that, maybe. maybe.

sometimes, most times, i just stop. the flood of colours is still there, at my eyelids. but, nothing. this is what i have to learn to deal with. i have to find the structure of chaos that i am meant to channel. wear it like i am fighting through sunday. i want to write a book. i want to write songs. i want to write my story on the walls (i have, to some extent.) but maybe these aren't my vessels. i still strongly believe that i will find my way. i know i could make some people see, i could make them smile. with these slow songs and lazy grassy days, just fingertips to find us.

i had a really nice night.