In Palestine, by Banksy.



You make me feel like an animal. You make my inner beast, that I didn’t even know existed, come out. I am clenching my teeth, biting back a growl, for you. And you are completely unknowing. I hate her. I hate her for wanting you. I hate her for pursuing you. You are mine. You make me want to possess you, and I hate that. I hate feeling rage and jealousy stirring in me. Such ugly emotions. What I hate the most is that you aren’t mine, not even a little bit. Not at all. But I want you to be. And I need to make you see that. I have to act. Fast.

Morning in the blue monster.

Face down, I’m immersed in an unsettling storytelling that leaves me on edge. Frighteningly intrigued.  The old, blue monster is giving out a mechanical laugh as it passes stop after stop, only halting to let the humans get to the desired destinations. Not having a final destination itself. The monster laughs at the soulless beings for being so caught up in getting where they want that they don’t stop and see what’s around them. It is a loud laugh. A sad laugh. I sit inside the blue, destinationless monster. Immersed in my book, not minding the mechanical sound or the hushed speaking in foreign tongue of the asian woman on the phone in front of me. I’m at a particularly unsettling part of my book when the sudden laugh of a child startles me. Already being on edge, the irregular sound makes me flinch in surprise. Looking up, I suddenly remember my surroundings. I see people around me, all in the same space, but in different worlds entirely. I look out the window, riding backwards as the scenery passes me in a velocity that is too low to make the images blur, but too high for me to decipher anything specific. I am blind to what’s coming ahead, only seeing what has already passed. When we reach my stop, I remember what’s waiting for me at my destination. My stomach clenches as I feel the anxiety creeping in from my sides, settling in the depths of my core. As the old doors open, I take a deep breath, stand up, and walk out of the old, blue, destinationless monster. Hearing only a loud, mechanic laugh behind me, becoming more and more faint as I walk towards my destination. Preparing to face my demons.

Getting lost within myself. Nothing matters, no one else.

Tune of the day CX.

I don’t usually listen to metal, but Metallica is pretty great. Lyrical genius. I especially like this song, because it’s hard and soft at the same time. Calm and powerful. Plus that it goes insane at some parts. I love insanity. Especially in music.

Emptiness is filling me
To the point of agony
Growing darkness taking dawn
I was me, but now he’s gone

Art as the main component of one’s existance.

I was introduced to a few amazing artists the other day – John Virtue, Banksy, Alex Pardee, Shepard Fairey and Jake and Dinos Chapman. A couple of those do very disturbing work, but amazing all the same. The funny thing is that it was through Omegle of all places. Troll was posing as a 48 year-old pedophile who wanted young girls and I started lecturing him on his sick ways, effectively creeping him out. It ended up being a nice conversation, and though it (obviously) was a one time thing, it did give me a lot. When I said I hadn’t heard about Banksy, his reaction was: “Woah.” Yeah, that made me feel a bit bad. Thank God I don’t walk around in ignorance anymore. Yes, so this is sort of an art appreciation post, but it’s also kind of a Troll appreciation post, seeing as it was the nicest conversation I’ve ever had with a person I don’t know. Yep, so thanks Troll. And in case he’s reading this:

This is definitely real (and not the puppet masters trying to trick you into thinking that it is). It isn’t a game. But I know a part of you will believe it no matter what I say, because you want it to be.

By John Virtue. Isn’t it amazing?

“The infinite future makes that kind of mattering impossible.”

Even if it’s a dumb story, telling it changes other people just the slightest little bit, just as living the story changes me. An infinitesimal change. And that infinitesimal change ripples outward – ever smaller but everlasting. I will get forgotten, but the stories will last. And so we all matter – maybe less than a lot, but always more than none.

Colin Singleton, An Abundance of Katherines