There is a Wall behind me
at all times.

I work at this desk
with my back to it,
I sleep on a bed facing the wall
opposite to the Wall,
I awake with my legs dangling
off the side of my mattress
blinking blearily at the Wall.

There is so much on it
I feel like
it’s the epitome of my thoughts;
I am desperate to cling
to supports that aren’t there
(so instead I make them,
by taping paper
items
pencils
paintings
to the Wall)

There is so much there.
so much there.
I don’t realize
half the time
but when people come into my room
they stare
for seconds
before asking me questions.

It’s how I think, How I Write. Run on sentences are a problem I face; just today I wrote a whole entire sentence with at least 50 words and no commas in sight. I also read something today, about a person that liked to write all their thoughts down because it would sort the thoughts out into neat lines, and I just sighed because yet again I found that, as common sense suggests, not all humans are alike.

Sometimes I want to write poetry because I wish for all the things I think just to be shoved into one word— just one. Because then when people hear me say it they don’t have to listen to me pant for breath, and when people see poetry and short things they think that they’ll be able to handle it better. It comes from a place of wanting to please people; not just myself, but to the people that I always write for. Whoever comes on this website, whoever just… reads my stuff.

Sometimes I want to type. Sometimes I don’t want to take my time. Sometimes I just want to spit it out, sometimes I just want to type receipts of prices and items and spit it from the static mask everyone seems to have over their minds. Sometimes I write and write and write and talk for so so so long that my tongue hurts, my throat hurts, my fingers are cold because I’m typing next to a window that’s constantly leaking air.

My hands itch
sometimes
when I want to do something.

Last week I didn’t have a sketchbook
I didn’t have a mirror
under my nose
or an HB Mechanical Pencil
in my hands.

No flexible cover to kiss goodnight
no blank pages to smile at me
no graphite faces to caress.

It was hell
hell
hell.
in which your power to create
is stripped from you;
my brother told me:

To Make An Artist
Not An Artist
Is Like Killing Them.

and I realized how true it was;
despite the fact that I don’t know what dying feels like, or how it feels to be dead. I will die someday, this I know and think about only when mentioned, but I also know that I’ll never be alive to tell the tale. The idea of an afterlife makes me want to grab my heart and never let it go, because I so desperately want to be able to tell a tale no one else has. What is that one dialogue from Undertale? About that purposeful, intentional bug saying that their greatest fear is imagining a world without them that still functions perfectly. My fear is not that I don’t matter, but that the things I do don’t matter, that I try so hard and produce so much writing and so many drawings and yet they mean nothing to everyone.

People are attracted
to the unknown.
We crave it
like men starved
(of knowledge)
.

We are all unknown
and we are all attractive.
That’s all that matters.