i.

I promised myself I would not become a starving artist. Yet here I am. Starving for words. Sounds. Images escape my memory.

I squint into the sun instead of opening my eyes because there are too many jobs to be done and the weight of this sits on my eyebrows dragging them downward to press on my eyelids making my eyes turn into little slits of hope. Sometimes even pressing water to fall.

I tell you, what I do is not for fun. Mostly it is to ease the pressure in my brain. To break through the inane-ness pf life's misunderstandings. And when I open my mouth to sing you a song, it is because that is the only way I know how to breathe.

Art is a necessity. You make think it pretty but, it's just like piss and shit. Like transcendence. Essential to life.

When is the right time to be creative?

If I can carve a reality thru a sonic breath with literary depth. Then life is worth living.

ii.

I work to the sound of clocks ticking, the metronome of life beating against my years.

If I could stop the clock I would not go back in time to change the days or forward to chart my way. I would just breathe. It's like holding breath underwater, the depth of these dreams.

I have forgotten my own heartbeat. I've been running on existential pressures never catching up with my own measure of time.

I promised myself that I would not become a starving artist.

And here I am.

Starving for time to stop the clock and work only by the click of my own heart. To dream. To create. To breathe.