it’s 12. the noise coming from the street is constant. the noise in my head syncs with the cars driving past to destinations unknown. i heard them speaking behind the door, contemplating how they can’t continue this way much longer. been sitting here contemplating death. death of spirit, happening daily, neglected. not as important as the flesh, it seems. i close the door behind me. walk down the semi lit stairwell, hearing families arguing & tv dialog. the street is mostly empty, except a dog walker every so often peeing on a tree. street lamps color the path, relating it back to me after so many hours of daylight. i’m supposed to have a destination, right? i mean why would i be writing a story, why would you be reading this if i wasn’t taking you somewhere.
coffee spills. the stereo plays “nothing lasts forever that’s the way its gonna be, theres a pretty black wave in then middle of the sea, for me”. it’s early. it’s morning. leaves are swaying to shallow winds, buildings are yelling to each other from across the street. the song ends. i clean up the mess as the neighbor drags a piece of furniture across the room above me. the next song begins.
the words coming out are slower, more pronounced. i understand where i am. i could feel my scars stretching as i twist and turn through the early hours of morning, trying to grasp to a few more hours of sleep, as my body unlocks it’s bones from its skin. a clock is ticking, a machine powered by batteries, following it’s hardware’s mechanism to construct a system that dictates time. materializing a concept of an abstract thought, to a physical, visual, form.
as an artist, or as people who create outside of themselves, things that belong to them, maybe more apart of them, less of belonging. i look for symbolism, for metaphors, to practice my deepest feelings in a way that is more of martial and less of a tangible location. you want to see your feelings? not just feel they’re abstractions, but touch them, so yo can pull them outside of yourself & examine them.
a clock stripped away of it’s said meaning is for that matter just a collection of numbers in a box running around in circles, as we watch them & call it “a passing of time”. the battery dies. we change it, until it dies again & again, repeating it’s intendent function & by that solidifying it’s form.
abstraction materializing into form, is not the proof necessary for reality to hold it’s physical existence. it is the repetition of that action, around the abstraction, that makes it real regardless of it’s physicality placed in the world.
* (song lyric mentioned in the second paragraph is from “black wave. bad vibrations” by arcade fire)