What does it mean to be in a gallery?
Does it substantiate who you are as an artist?
If you can see art in everyday life, are you then not an artist yourself?
Contriving bitter sweet melodies and weaving them into words and planes and beings
I am an artist.
Is it a question for all of us who see a deeper sense of belonging and being and conform not to what is told to be free. A version of ourselves that we don't want to be?
Why do we push ourselves.
To the limit.
Ourselves closer to the format of subjectivity. I am a subject.
Of my own encounters .
I envy those people who cannot see through the tainted dimensions and rigidity of society.
To sit outside and look with clear third vision.
Of what it all means. Of a truer than dimensional existence.
To not be clouded by the judgement of ourselves and others. So, I wanted to do and do and do I did.
But with this doing I grow tired, aches and pains riddle my body like a thick fog.
I slip into my subconscious.
Feel the altruist nature of my very being.
I feel whole, whole is a hard place.
Whole is a lonely place.
Deep thinking, deep breathing, deep meditation.
Maybe I'm just overtired.
I sit on this chair, alone, passers by watch me and judge me. Why is she not enjoying the museum? Oh but I am. On a level that transcends the stereotypical paint sniffing, language learning bullshit.
I see it, for what it is.
An escalator to my existence. An instigator to my resistance.
A time. A moment in time. My moment in time. And I will do exactly what I want with this, time.
A weather of knowledge surrounds me.
Like a burden to my bones. With the power to go but only one human body to house it. I need ten bodies. One for each day of the week.
Do I like to make me suffer?
What is it then that I do this for?
Exhaustion is a yucky word. But, when nearest to sleep I see the coins that you keep. There's no filter when you mind begins to switch off. Why is it then that I judge myself of this break?
Is not something I easily give myself.
On myself, on others. To perform. 100%.
Give yourself a motherfucking break.
Can you still claim to love yourself if you're in a place where you don't even know who you are? In a time where you could be anyone but choose to be inside this reign of cloud?
Let yourself go.
Let yourself seep into the artwork.
Resting is very soon.
I'm not judging.