She calls herself self-conscious because she does not consider herself artistic, not an artist even. And she calls herself an artist because what else can she call these words and images that she forms, takes, thinks, sees, hears, and feels as beautiful other than art?
And so when she put her camera on timer one late afternoon (the room shadowy and lit up only by LCD screens) and the picture ended up blurred and grainy, she was satisfied. For two reasons: one, she’s self-conscious, and two, she thought that the idea was beautiful.
She liked that blurred pictures seem like frozen moments in a work of art, frozen in an eternally unfinished point in time, and she’s left to wonder, is there more to it? Often times, she would ask that to herself, then she would definitely resign herself from trying to be an artist. There were no losses, no failed attempts, if she does not have an obligation as one. So she just kept on forming, taking, thinking, seeing, hearing, and feeling all the things beautiful to her, to keep her inexplicably satisfied.
It's too early for wandering, she thought.
My home is dying. It's walls - decaying. Touch the cracks on the ground and gaze up to the night sky. Know our thoughts are deluded. We are isolated.
Home, back from the irony of calmness of mind while walking in the midst of hectic Metro Manila.
Waiting To Delete
We shall walk together but for a while, and then you will find your own path.
Maybe the world simply operates faster now, but I miss the days when my days had more breathing room. When I would sit in cafés.
Hello, I’m the great idea you’ve been looking for