At least when you’re little you can blame your parents. You can lock your bedroom door and tell yourself you’ll escape all of this and everything will be so much better when you do. But now I can’t escape anything but myself and what I’ve become. I have to accept all of the bridges I’ve burned, all of the bridges I shouldn’t have built in the first place, and all of the habits I’ve formed and the place inside of me that says fuck it I don’t care. I have to accept all of that because it’s mine now and there’s no one to lock out of my room. When I write like this I sometimes just delete it because I feel guilty for sharing my melancholy and then I think if I can’t write it here, on my own damn blog, then how am I ever going to open up again in real life?
Clou le Fou
In conjunction with my photography exploring negative space, I have also been writing in that silent time between midnight and 4am, and here I have gathered memories and words from that space between dreams and reality.