Haunted by an ancient title in my story I find myself lost in the battlefield of my open heart. Wounded Knee still strikes me standing still. Did you know I live next to a graveyard? That may be why I have trouble sleeping, because my dreams are full of glowing yellow eyes shrouded by clouds shrouded by skies.
Perhaps there aremany ways to love. At 25 years old, I have been faced with the fear of failure over and over and over and over and over and over and now faced with it again I am faced with the inevitable: we’re all gonna die one day. What is our legacy? What will I leave behind so that others may be at peace? What ancestral wounds do I need to unlearn, what leashes of trauma hold me back from loving myself fully as the moon loves herself consistently? No matter her distance and singular loneliness hung up in the sky, a white orb glowing bright with promise and despair. The moon is so beautiful. Maybe I write too pretty. Maybe I need to write ugly. For the world is ugly and beautiful and everything that is opposite. All things opposite encompassed in a circle. Aren’t we all our own moon, orbiting around energy, a light we gravitate towards, in wonder and awe at this energy we are share and feel. Do you feel it too? Do you feel it too as an artist, the excited buzz of electricity when you finally connect, after hours and sometimes years of wanting and waiting and wading through time, you finally feel the connection to all living things. All matter and energy. There’s something tragically beautiful about being alive and conscious that we are not physical beings.
Being an artist means being a carrier of stories. I hold many baskets throughout my home for listening, scatter notes into passages when I have a fleeting moment to write. It’s all of our dreams to create, to destroy, to make love, to fuck, to see ourselves in nature, reflect on our dreams, ruminate over obsessions. At least I do. And it drives me in circles: back again to the beginning because there’s no avoiding the mountain of fears and questions within me. Isn’t it an odd thing, to be human? To be an artist? To feel so deeply you must capture that moment like a bird and then release it to the world and take flight?
Don’t we all want to be free?