Joy

I write to see myself write, to hear myself express ideas that do not materialize in real life around me. That I want to write less when I end up having satisfying conversations confirms to me that there is an element of justification, a confessional theme in my reason to write. Maybe that is why... Continue Reading →

March 26, 2019 0

On Art, Artists and Consumers

Most pieces of art that intimidate me, I find eventually, are all incredibly personal creations. Maybe that is why, when consuming them, I feel a genuine sense of trepidation. It has a quality of the unseen. As if it were conceived in the purity of a human mind without validation from anyone else. Very few people... Continue Reading →

November 8, 2017 3

Oct 1st 2017, Brooklyn

Help me out here, will you? Why write? I mean, why write? What I write I want to read. What I want to read I want to experience in some form and what I don't experience leaves me screaming for it self-pityingly. Admonitions of "but you can't have it all" or "fucking nonsense, grow up" make me... Continue Reading →

October 1, 2017 3