domingo, 6 de enero de 2019

/letter to myself.
/first words, best words, unedited.

#paintings
#2051




TEXT: "art is ego, it needs to be cruel, obsessive and solitary, and as all artists centered in themselves, I can display narcissistic behaviour, I can be withdrawn, disconnected.
I operate under the delusion I can rewrite my past by writing novels, bla bla, bla. I profile those around me, because knowing what they want gives me leverage. bastard. tight bonds can make me vulnerable and I hate it. I have nothing against love, it is amazing, extraordinary, but freedom is better. to me, love is a place where it is no longer possible to be happy, maybe it never was. I’ve known happiness and I’ve known its end, and knowing about it feels like a victory. and then there’s still sex. the idea of fucking seems more and more preposterous to me, inapplicable, it carries with it so many preparatory activities... but there’s some obscenity now and then, la obscenidad además de rotunda puede ser en manos de un escritor un elemento de crueldad potentísimo (1). my body has betrayed me. I see myself everyday and I get used to the changes of time, but I really understand its devastating effects when I see someone I loved in a distant past and haven't seen since. 10 years after. 20 years after. people I loved and whose bodies have also been betrayed (2). no words come to my mind when that happens, only a frightened silence, what can I say. it will happen again and again and again."

(I even fucked her in my dream, and she was great in bed) -- P.S. tonight I dreamed I was in love with a woman close -a colleague you could say- and amazingly this morning it feels like I care about her... it will go away quickly, in a few hours, but you see? that is the incredible power of dreams.

(1) obscenity - in addition to being categorical - can be in the hands of a writer a very powerful element for cruelty. 

(2) I value embarrasment. it tells me I am in the presence of excess. amen. 


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