Whispers of ideas, invitation to inspiration that we turn down, unable to know what the point of anything is.
So many people seem to have it so together, but all it takes is just one look in the right closet, and the skeletons will tell you a different story.
It isn’t about judging, but about having the full awareness that no answer is without more questions, no path without forks in the road, and a map that leads nowhere in particular with a compass that points to what you want except you don’t know what you want.
A cocoon inside of my head, coiled in thoughts of murmurs only said between clouds of smoke, sobs of longing and the right blues song.
The detachment that makes you seem so crazy is precisely what keeps you sane. What is a voice if not simply the sound of others hearing us?
Art is uncarried voice, the in between the echoes, and writing is the introduction and synopsis. The epilogue. The review. The truth is in its totality.
When I am left alone, without an audience, art is the elephant in the room with me.