i can’t write about my art but i can write about my life.

i try and fail to define my practice, my life, my everything. goals and rules, for me, are things that get broken and ignored so why make a liar out of myself?

if i weren’t a failure i’m not sure what else i could be and i watch my work fail even more but hope that one day it won’t–that it will succeed in its vision of representing my life and soul.

it’s not fashionable nor friendly. i’m haunted by long periods of despair and silence and struggle with the idea that my work will live on after my death for reasons that escape me.

that it wasn’t all for nothing? maybe.

but to communicate to someone else that they’re not alone in their experiences. that someone has existed that felt similarly and to strengthen that bond with the living from beyond the grave–just as my body will serve to fuel millions of bacteria and future plants and life.