It took hours [unfinished]
It took hours to write nothing. Days to draft one line. Weeks to find the words amongst tens of thousands of words. Years awaiting to feel a particular emotion, in a sequence of thousands of emotions. Decades for a few noteworthy experiences. A lifetime and good fortune to meet a muse. All while navigating an innumerable amount of distractions.
It took my being inadequate and inferior. Too much, and hard to bear rejection. A loud and violent hatred towards myself. Palpitations and trouble breathing caused by a guilty conscience. A torturous inability to sleep. An obligation to a bad environment. A proficiency for loss and failure. A perpetuating need of approval, for an unsalvageable ego. The sanity of a homeless schizophrenic. That is not leisure or recreation but it would also be understated as ‘work’.
Yet still my efforts are ignored. My work disapproved of, and unprovokingly insulted by the people who are supposed to appreciate it most. But it’s enough to be in Gagosian, MoMa or the AGO. it’s enough to collaborate with Dan Colen or David Choe. It’s enough to be stolen by Luke Turner. It’s enough to be mentioned with Sharon Hayes, Robert Burns or Shakespeare. Because it’s more than art. It’s an inanimate friendship that’s provided consolement and amusement. It’s my reason to feel proud amongst few or none. It’s the purpose I need in order to continue through my most difficult days. It’s an example to influence others to love more than the ordinary standard. It’s the immaterial part to my physical form.
It is great.