[Hector fled towards inhibition as if its supposed, fleeting grasp may release at any moment. His ideas were a farce, for it would not let go; Its love strong as iron made by any smith, which for millennia had held back the waves of anguish. Distraught tears the intellectual child cried, he was fighting against its intimacy because to him it was a raging fire intent on destruction. He saw it as a mediocre confinement destined for ruin, its purpose a remedied means for emotional definition. In Hector’s nearsighted and muddy perspective she was a translucent bastard and allowed for only wit and provided grassy illusion. Becoming of sound mind was nowhere near as he had viciously cut prospect into his bloodied and scarred skin; reminiscent of a time for only enjoyment and healthy prosperity.
This paltry being continued upon the ragged path till idiosyncratic injury protruded. His tides calmed as this single motion made petty his fears and wistful past. Lured forth by his quaint marks, Hector became what was meant. Faded mokes may label it fate or destiny, but there is no such thing…and without divine insult, to do or not is all he decided; knowing full well that ideals drawn upon tainted silt are nothing more than a passing mirage, dependent upon time alone.
And yet he was no longer solitary. Her loving hands grasped firmly within his, the vast ocean of her opaque cerulean eyes staring back into his very own. All lost to him except adoration of life and its exceptionally meaningful beauty. His being was placed firmly; held in her dainty pale hands as if it were a living, beating heart… but it was more. Hector was more than a beating heart, which he now accepted as blithe tacit. Bland antiquity growing towards callous ingenuity, but altogether composed of an embellished blonde.]
Its absolutely perfect in my frail mind… I hope you enjoyed,
The brooding force of undesired sadness looms over many, unseen and sadly unkept. Left in disarray by most, every day it claims the innocence of beating hearts. A frankly hideous mirage that covers most afflicted stops pursuit of true meaning and redemption. People fail to realize others suffering because it isn’t always apparent, the lack of interest and belief goes unnoticed and the supposed caregivers are left thinking that they have been relieved. This unshakeable sadness and dread that comes along with it all mutilates and destroys ones spirit and truly very few are ever given meaningful help or love to concede.
For doing the obvious isn’t what helps most of the time, what turns the tides are the small, frequent gestures of thoughtful love. The grand actions mean jack shit if the person suffering doesn’t believe you care. If they are comfortable with it sit with them for as long as you can, you don’t even need to talk just sit and let them know you are there. Make it obvious as to what they mean to you and how you are there for them Without that mindful support I do have trouble imagining that I would have made much if any progress.
On the topic people always seem to misunderstand the idea of being “suicidal”. It is viewed as a passing effect of distress, which(in my abrasive experiences) is far from true. It isn’t simply just the act of wanting to end your life, it doesn’t just come and go for an idea of that stature is far from a medial affair… It is something that bears weight and erodes reasonable thought with brutal aspirations. It dances around normality disguising itself as a crude inefficient fool, but it really truly is more. It is a solidified part of anyone afflicted and it performs as any other part would. It fades and flaunts what it is, only supporting the suicidal depression that has been obscured.
More directly I want to reference the fact that it is always with one, the so called suicidal grey area. It may never present as a desire to end ones own life, it can simply be a desire to lack existence. To do away with the monotony of life and avoid the useless precision of animation. The dissidence of it all is stunning, for truly the idea that one must end reality for lack of authentication is… surprisingly quite settling as it proves individuality and conscious anonymity. I do still believe that it is cause for flawed perception but forming intent based on these existential crises is enlightening. I am who I am, partially because of these desires that I live with every day of my life, my views are rooted in ideas that were formed because of my emotional religion. Below is another piece of prose I attempted;
Stranded by the force of writ, before creation of credit it was subdued as if violent precedence had been set. Yet none wrought upon justice till fret be created by the herd. Made up of frustrated and petty hounds they sought only blood and brooding pain. For only necessary petty beings were left unharmed and in grand position.
Cosmic ideas were birthed from the spit of redemption, forced out by howling spirit. Wrought upon them they endured the shrill shrieks of a creators wrath that the many fell for and few withheld. Those left be driven for necessity and deluded pride. Little by little its rage dwindled but doom was near and forth nonetheless. Before pride conceived the dire events of prelude occurred and once forth is how it proceeded;
It stood before the whimsical, tall machines and her dwindled memory, faded into loose desires of hope. Too be it was not and the doubt of herself was ended in a hideous eruption of anger and fear alike. Silenced for all concurrent and all ahead he made reception to death and allowed the embrace of his owned subtle silence.
My point though is that this is not just an idea for action, it is much more than that. It is a realization of passive and futile actions towards a bitter end, that many pursue illusions of hope and meaning but end up with little. I admit I am a pessimist but those broken and beaten turn my admiration into fear and to longing for something of meaning. Trouble is for that to be attracted one must present luster and grandeur which is found few and far between in the presence of oneself.
I often feel that the pain felt is not worth existence and that what I truthfully need is a permanent rest, but I am able to escape and each and every day I wake up thinking of what could be, what I can create, and how I can help people in need. It gives me small amounts of hope and fuels persistent hope.
In the end I have found that the spacious continuity of ones life is far more toted than the amplification of unrest. The fountains of knowledge I contain are cracked deserts compared to the information I have yet to grasp… and isn’t that enough to seed ambition? I think it is, at least for the time being and I believe that I can continue my right. Once again if you need to talk I am around,
Here are some sketches I was doing earlier last week, When I was first fleshing out this style of drawing. When I am beginning the sketch I will start with one defining feature of the character, usually the nose or eyes. I will draw a distinctive and alarming, sometimes grotesque part of the face and that will help me to imagine the rest of the character. While I am drawing I keep imagining new stories and events that occurred in this, very real, persons life. Each drawing has fantastic ideas hopes and dreams, I know their inherent failures and disabilities. Those scribbly words you see scattered across the page are notes, a reminder of these peoples lives. Here is the notes for “sunflower”, the bottom most image. I left in the grammatical errors, I think it is a little more true to what my original intent was;
“Ugly and mutilated, sunflower; prostiute, grew up, parents killed by gangs lived in slums, he wa stakenm and sold. Slavery of sexm belitted by acts, turned into an embodied sadbness, little by little lost, till me mervin. Fell in love madre sunflower feel. Mroe than the buyers of his body. mervin was juyts as broken and sunflower was drawn to that, the recognition of intent. Righht now sunflower is fucking harriot aka “labia”(stripper name) Labia is in love, but only truluy a side hoe. No love felt by sunflowwer, butr he is labia’s whole life. Sunflower broke her heart. labia jumped off building and killed herself, suflower told labia he wanted he to so they could be together forevor. She died, sunflower married mervin, he came out as gay truly. They wer smoking one night, and then they ate some ectasy givren to sunflower by a client, they tripped out, mervin dropped a cig on their couch. Their apartment went up in flames, they both died. their floor collapsed onto the appartment below them, a 2 year old child in a crib was crushed, and so was his mother sleeping beside him, the mistress of a kingpin.”
I have stories akin to this for all the people I draw, it is an integral part of my process and gives my work meaning even if only to me. Most of them are metaphors for my beliefs and ideas, but done so unintentionally. when I look back on the sketches and think about their lives…. It is almost as if I am given a direct window into my mind, telling me what I want and what I am. When I draw I am not thinking of this at all, but it comes and the meaning flows out of me and onto the paper. This is why I love these drawings so much because they represent me and what I have done. They may be improperly adorned but it is of little matter. Radishes are delicious,
Thoughts of illiterate desire delude my attentions constantly, rewriting my intentions and stranding continuity. The plain writings of my past make me lose sight of a greater goal where I have found solidified love a necessity. Which is something I have yet to find sadly, but within a mash of allure I adopt devotion in the ideas of time. What I have found though is hope, which was something I lacked for quite a long time. Hope that I will one day attract something greater than my feeble will and polarize my past desires. For life truly allows for very little unless meaning is constructed and nurtured towards the end goal of true devotion. Maybe I am being a daft romantic, but the idea of non traditional monogamy truly seems ideal to me. Having someone to depend upon and someone who you grant complete and utter trust to. A person who you can cry to without fear of malicious judgment, and provide comfort before the waves crash down.
Placing hope in chance is all I can do for investment in uncertainties will undoubtedly destroy the hope that I have fostered. Although I may seem strong or solid, I am not, my sanity resides upon a crack filled floor housed above an eternal void of instability. If I neglect repair and decide to abuse I am sure that my shaky base will crumble and my undivided beliefs will be forgotten. I am lost at sea and need to find a decided shore that will accept and understand my refuse.
One of the things that most upsets me is when a misinformed says I am doing well or says that they are so glad that I got well. As if they fucking know what I go through every day, the struggles of belief and restless needs. I send attention towards release and overt loss, for there are many days where I relapse to a time when I longed for darkness, when I needed the stark silence of death. These times harken up ideas that I need solidarity in order to hide my corpulent composition.
What I mean to say(in short) is that many believe that my depression has faded, but they fail to realize how encompassing it all truly is. My intellectual flaws are something that I must endure every single day and telling me to release hope is more destructive than any may know. I do not know where I will fall and flail, but in this moment it is certain that hope is my greatest drive and concurrent weakness. It leaves me open to erosion and delusion, and similarly also allows happiness and meaningful desire passage. Unrelenting muster may be my greatest achievement thus far. Disallowing inherent opposition I attempt,
Nurtured Beliefs of Desperate Angles
Left for meaning the poor desire was eluded,
Fondled and twisted by outside forces,
They were told of an unlikely recovery,
So without a care it began,
She rewound time upon the stars,
And realized the true meaning of concise devotion,
Unbeknownst to the majority it was conceded,
This single illusion carried out by the many,
And the few who seek punctual solidarity,
Were released to the frigid grasp of death,
Combusted fumes leak from their corpses,
Driven to exhaustion by depth of consciousness,
Philosophers knew little of what she pursued,
For they deluded into a loss of ambition,
Meaning not to destroy,
Lost within a singularity,
Stream of consciousness writing (for lack of a favoured term)has become an indispensable part of my so called “creative process”. Engrained into the way I think it subtly allows for more appropriated works and fluid expression. Leading from one thing to the next, beginning and ending intertwined it all becomes an utter mess.
Before I began doing it myself I wondered why a creator would bother to spew nonsense like this. My thoughts were that it would just confuse and dilute intent, which really is quite a reasonable idea. In effect though it is the opposite because I will often release to immerse myself in a inventive mindset to dial in on what message I want to tell and what topic shall be covered.
EXAMPLE#1 [LOST ENTITIES OF FAITH]
Bruised the wonderful image adored, lost between others men delude and relax to many objects performed daily taxes routines animals taken lost made glorious revolution between illiterate lines sheep flocks and birds herd never before imagined how it was the child cried. Adored my many but lust felt none. Nobody knew daughters father’s and life taken for a ride along the water. Water black cold heartless mater of fact deliberate person, described as another’s worship. Don’t elude I understand people of many need not be scared. I am a lonely witch beaten by the ones own minds, need to find something of another. Forever looking towards obvious flutes. Never attend just leave death.
If meaning to create a finished piece constructed with this technique then I find that it becomes oddly poetic. While I myself am not particularly fond of standard poetry these start/stop mechanics in play truly tug at my mind. Sometimes after writing I find completely different meaning in a set of text then what was originally intended by myself.
EXAMPLE#2 [DISTURBED INTRUSIONS]
Beloved by many the river was, milky and of dark grey it wound. Alone in the mountain she moved within. Met two by two each pondered the idea of death. Flight was near allowed by none, taboo little ones strode across the path. Miniature fountains for fondness’ fruit bore. Belittled sculptures of last lives known by none, sadness and mediocrity preceded the masses. Not caused by lacking institutions for grievous wounds upon fruit lost. Healers and creatures know not of alliteration but simply of existence. From the milky river arose a black musty mist and enveloped the man alone. Insignificant his passing was nothing adjourned.
The idea that I can get lost within my own writing is fascinating and really draws my passion. Normally once I create something it is over and I move on, I understand it and there is no reason to move on… But with this I will sometimes catch myself digesting a page of my own formation for hours. Whereabouts my thought falls can leave me with a lack of conclusion and it truly is fascinating. Even my formal writing can be maniacal in nature due to its sheer uncertainty.
Throughout all the nonsensical rambling, all I mean to say is attempt retention. Stream of consciousness writing is a brilliant way to further your technique and cradle your experimental imagination. Beware of lacking horizons, yours truly