Fear, is something they tell you to get over. Maybe if you face your fear, it will get better. But when your fear is inside yourself, how do you get over it? Atelophobia is the fear of not being good enough, and I constantly battle with myself, a war that has no end date, a forever on going period of self hatred. It is like you are trapped inside yourself with no way of getting out, you see everything in the worst state. The winds of woe are forever sweeping you off your feet, and you stumble as you try to get up. You don’t want to voice your opinion for theres always the fear of not being good enough, not having the outcome you want. So its easier to keep your mouth closed, and your eyes shut; keep the world from entering you. Its not that you aren’t good enough, its not that people think low of you...its that you feel badly about yourself. Try so hard to sing the melodies of the soundtrack to your life, but they are all out of tune, even though in someone else’s ears’ they could be beautiful.
I keep trying to tell myself that it will get better, that the way I see myself may not be the way others see me. But each time I am faced with the voices that tell me that I’m wrong, that its stupid, don’t try something new, don’t tell anyone how you feel. You will get judged and put down. Yet, all I’m doing is putting myself down by not. And too many times when I’ve tried something, opened up my heart a little, it goes unseen, it goes to a place where I didn’t want it too.
Then, I’m straight back to square one.
Where ships sail in the clouds, and the grass entwine around the creatures. Where the clouds collide and the imagination takes control. The world is upside down, mixed around and torn apart, waiting for someone to fix it. But here there is no need to be fixed, the difference of this world is what makes it unique. Makes it different from anywhere else. Where the creatures learn to love and the grass so gentle guiding ships to the sky. A place where everything is accepted, no judgment. Yet there is no place in the world like this, just an imagination and a thought of how we would want it to be. An illusion of reality that sucks most people up and tries to comfort us in a blanket of lies until someone takes of that blanket and you’re left to pick up the truth and discover yourself. Find a way to express yourself in art like I do, like Salvador Dali did. A portrayal of what you think, your feelings, how you act and believe. Even though we live in different eras, one left behind and one living, the teachings are still there. The way that art can help, never to be afraid of what you are capable of. As he once said “Surrealism is destructive, but it only destroys what it considers to be shackles limiting our visions.”.
They say that time can heal the pain, but time is the only thing that can kill us. So stop waiting for the clock hands to push you far enough into the future that you become the past. They say that words speak louder than actions but what use is that if the actions put the words in your head to start with? Flying around echoing the times you cannot speak for your weakness was too strong and the memories are stitched to the tip of your tongue. The pain you feel suffocates you and strips you of your leaves and beauty, you feel death of yourself, the bare branches of your existence droops down from the heavy weight of tear drops. But it doesn’t always have to be like this, for summer comes around. When the trees have the look of loss and death, they come through. For there is a speck of life in everyone, even if in the eye of the beholder all you see is dead branches and broken leaves that won’t stop falling you have to remember- your roots don’t define you.
This piece was sold fro $180.
Lines Are Eyes With Different Minds.
I am not human. I am a book. I may be flesh and bone, but the rives that flow in my veins are of ink. This ink sometimes spills onto paper, and the words of me appear. Sometimes we let the words define us. We use them as a way of creating a story of views, we write over ourselves. tattooing these thoughts into our skin.
Me? Well, I ran away with a pen and took pleasure in replacing emotions with metaphorical values and philosophical meaning. I did not mean to write my own ending, I did not mean to create a page, that turned into a book with no sequel. And every-time I was so close to finishing the last sentence, I would re-read my story. In ways that changed the meaning every time.
I don't like to look at myself you see. I like to read myself. I believe that seeing is a mediocre attempt at reading. You can see what you or everyone else sees, but reading, that's the own voice inside your head, is it not? It leads to an interpretation of many. Every line, word, meaning something else to someone else. I would like to think that someone will take the time of reading. Not just a word or a line. But page by page and slowly, they will read the whole book.
To Read Is To Live.
Everyone always wishes to become invisible. Everyone always thinks it would be a cool "superpower" to have. Yet when you discover you, a person of human flesh, are already invisible, what is there left? You no longer see the world of fruitful colours, they fade to shades of grey and shards of black that imbed themselves into unopened veins. You see when you become invisible, it is not a pier but a weakness. I felt a weak portrayal of the person I could aspire to be. Yet I, I was not seen by the eyes of judgement many throw distain towards. I was only seen by a soul of myself, I couldn't even use my eyes. So how was anyone else supposed to? I could have been one of the others, another fashionably late clone of someone else, but I chose to be me. and of course it left be to me alone. No longer was I surrounded by people, but unwelcomed thoughts that whispered cold breaths. Invisibility, is not a gift but a burden, it is overwhelming and this is not the way I wished to be, floating in a sea of grey, no colour, no beauty. Just shells, and hollow souls that represent nothing but who they want to be, not who they are. I guess that's the difference between them and I. I am alive whilst they are dead. Maybe that why they don't see me. Maybe that's why my unspoken words build up sand castles that will fall like the ashes of cigarettes and every wave drags me to sea, or see. I believe I am the only one who can see things, see the unknown glances to one another the unopened nobody's. Invisibility may not only be a burden but a curse, of forever falling...into...nothing...but...pages.