Rant About A Shooting Star

I burn, I yearn, my heart’s on fire. I hate, I’m tired, I’m burning inside. Whilst I still try to please you, Don’t get me wrong, If you heat my ire enough, I’ll fucking be gone. I’m really sick of this fucking fighting. I’m done with feeling like a fucking commodity. I’m not a piece of sexy meat, I’m a tired little girl, running to meet What’s in front of me, I want what’s ahead, I’m burning and yearning to get far, instead All I hear is arguments and excuses, Complaints, finger pointing, Trust me, it’s useless, To lay the blame outside yourself, Denies your own learning, your growth, It keeps you down, hating your own filth. And believe me, I see it, I don’t like it either, It’s a real turn off, I want to set the bar higher. I’m so sick of your daily complaining, If your tongue is wagging, Perhaps it should stop, Or gods, just be productive, Get excited with me, baby, Let’s accomplish epic things. Great things, darlin’ It’ll be the best. Just knock off your shit, Can’t we go to bed happy? I can’t satisfy you, No one can. No one ever will, You’ve gotta accept that, honey. You have to satisfy yourself, You’ve gotta be proud of yourself, Work and work, do what it takes, Do whatever it fucking takes, Until you can be happy. Fuck, it may take years, It sure has for me, But don’t give up. Every suicidal night, holding an emotional bleeding knife, Convincing yourself to stay alive, But do it, convince yourself, bear through it, Become better, use it. Use it as fuel for your fire, Build your flames. Make yourself become stronger. It doesn’t matter if you feel that way. Choose to be better. Choose to try again. Decide that you are going to become, The best version of you, No matter what the cost, No matter what bullshit you have to give up. Because we’re all full of bullshit, darlin’ We are all full of excuses, Reasons why we’re right, Reasons why they’re wrong, Reasons and excuses why we deserve things, It’s bullshit, honey, it’s all looking at it the wrong way. That’s looking at the problems and making wishes, Pining away at the unrequited response from the Universe. Instead, create solutions. Don’t give up. NEVER give up. Keep driving ever forward, Toward what you seek, toward your passions, toward the sun. Never stop racing. Never stop forcing. Never stop claiming your way. You are a shooting star, But it hurts to be on fire. You feel yourself burning, and you fear it is not alright. But the pain and the burning, the uncontrolled, soaring, Dipping, blasting, jolting, It is simply a part of our existence, It is who we are, What we get to experience. We get to burn and fly, Sometimes we collide, sometimes we fall apart, We separate, drift, break, At times we conjoin, drifting alongside others, But all of our fascinating dynamics, Must interact, and those reactions, May be intense, and hurtful, If they are incompatible or too hot. Coming together is a delicate yet indelicate process, In any relationship, communication is a must, whether it be sentient or non-sentient. Without communication, the parts separate, Drawn to others with more similarities, That which it can “vibe” with. That’s everything with life. Denying it, avoiding it, Causes a rift of pain, Because denying reality, Is ever a way to breed dissatisfaction. Directing a shooting star takes a lot of effort and practice, Through time, you will feel more skilled, You will gain more thrills from directing yourself, From carrying yourself with grace, repose, Maturity, kindness, serenity, and most importantly, Nobility. For we have the ability to conduct ourselves, In the highest manner of any living organism, In the whole of the known universe. And in all of our vast and great galaxy, We, alone, are graced with the experience, and ability, to be better, to be higher, To be truly noble. To be truly great. Truly Epic. To rise above our base selves, and aspire to something greater, Than we were yesterday. Greater, than we were a moment ago. Stronger of will, Deeper in compassion and empathy, Truer of Mind, Ever maturing in composure and greatness, In any interaction, In every situation, A master of our own destiny, A genius of our own path, A shaman in our own spirit journey. We are blessed with greatness beyond our own comprehension, Greatness beyond the most exquisite experience we have yet had, For we cannot comprehend something, Until we experience it, And while it may happen in grades, Someday you, and I, Each of us who strive and move forward with passion, We will see our nobility, Our progress, How incredible we truly are. If we move forward. Keep moving forward. Past collisions. Past all the problems, all the bullshit. Beyond who we are, Burning away all the dross, Becoming who we will be, Who we can be, Who we desire most to be. And honey, I want that. I BURN for it. I refuse to lose sight of it. And either you’re coming with me, Or you’ll see my flaming tail, As I whisk away, a wink in the sky, Ever, always bursting forward.

One of Life's Saddest Beauties

I have held too many lives in my hands. The weight of each makes me quiver deep into my soul. Being the person whom someone trusts most, trusts implicitly, trusts more than they have anyone else, it is a beautiful, terrible, terrifying gift - a double-edged sword sharper than razors. How can one person be entrusted with another's legacy of emotions, insanity, memories, and their decisions toward life or death? As I sit in nature feeling the cold wind wrap my body tightly and throw my hair about, icy tears hesitantly glide down my cheeks...and I, once more, try to convince someone I love and cherish to allow their heart to continue beating; to lean on me so I can give them refuge. I plead openly, without pretense, for my beloved friend to trust my words - even as impossible and harrowingly hopeless it feels - and hold on. Hold on to me. Don't leave me.... I wish I could say, "please...please don't leave me...not after I've let you into my damaged heart. Don't leave me here alone, without your light, without getting to learn and experience all the gorgeous chaos that you are. Please... Don't leave me to face my depression alone." But I can't. The words I speak are still truth, but not selfish; being entrusted with someone's life is not the time to be selfish....and I feel guilt, for sharing those same inclinations, that same hopelessness, the same insanity that feels impossible to overcome. More than once, I have been cutting at my own flesh with a sharp edge while telling a friend that life is worth it; that it will be alright someday...that healing is possible. I'm not there yet...but I know, I KNOW, it is true. I hate life just as much as anyone else who is seriously suicidal, but.... Life can be a beautiful tragedy...without escaping it through death. Ultimately, my intense feelings, no matter how long-lasting and insane they feel, cannot end my life on their own - only I, or an outside source, can do that. So... I hope...one day... I can look into the faces of each life I hold...and feel warm tears of gratitude upon my cheeks, instead of the heavy weight of cold, terrified tears... I'm so afraid...that one person's hands - no matter how capable - are not enough to hold a life together.

An Easily Digestible Poem

You said, once, As we walked together, That you would never, Never give up, That you would, No matter what, Win my heart, And be my man. I laughed, And thought, You were so silly, So young, That you couldn't, Understand, That my heart, Was undone. Now I stand, Alone, Having crumbled, My walls, My heart beats, Loudly, Wildly, I want you. Now I run, After your shadow, Telling you, I will never, Never give up, That I will, No matter what, Take back, Your heart, And have you, Be my man. I hope, You don't laugh, And think, You are no longer, Young, That I am silly, That your heart, Is undone. I want to walk, Beside you again, And know, Together, We will never, Never give up, Because, We have, Each other's hearts, And we laugh, Together, In the sunshine, And smile, At how silly we are, And how young, We feel, Together, And know, Our hearts, Are one.

My Most Candid Confession

And here I sit, love, in the quivering silence, the tense stillness buzzing with the electricity that only you can engender in my soul. Your handprint on my heart - so hot, it burns - my chest can barely rise with shallow breath from the pressure. Unable to escape into my typical distractions, I feel your presence in an alien environment, wondering if you'll appear - knowing you won't - and paralyzed from movement regardless. I read once of the evils of hope; that it creates an aching emptiness, a shattering sadness, from the need for that which is hoped for. I feel that hope in these moments, darling, and its bittersweetness fills every spark of electricity in my cells. That sweetness, cloying, dense, causes me to long for the painful times with you - because even those incidents of sadness were spent together - wishing I could meet you again in the soft falling of our mutual souls. I ache without you, my sweet, a deeply bruised pain in all the places you traced your name, and the ache seeps outward, trembling through my body. Just the sight of you makes my heart stop - then rush forward like a great, crashing torrent - just the sight of you causes my body to quiver and shake from the intensity of my soul calling to yours - and the near impossible difficulty of holding myself back from rushing into your arms and stealing you into myself forever. My dearest, it matters not to me what happened, what is happening, what will happen; it matters not to me that if we were together once more you would make me cry; I couldn't give a damn that perhaps we would go our separate ways again...all that I can see, all that matters, is that my heart wants you, my soul loves you, my mind brightens with you, my body craves you; and I cannot see reason in not living in accordance with my feelings for fear of what may come, nor to avoid the possible sadnesses the future may bring. I could die tomorrow, in a month, in a year, in a decade or a few, and my last moments would be spent longing for you, and wishing I had been able to retain a few more moments by your side, locked in your embrace, crying tears of laughter, joy, and heartbreak. Love, I am sorry how it broke your heart when you would see me cry, but I cannot regret those moments, because I feel closer to you because of them. I treasure the deep, tender rending of our hearts together. I realize now, that without heartbreak, there can't be a complete joining of our souls - without breaking each other open, we cannot come together as a healed whole. I love you... those words are meaningless. Those words cannot possibly describe the level of devotion and appreciation I hold for you. Those words...so paltry... they cheapen my feelings with pathetic connotations and frivolity. My soul wants to mingle with yours again, to dance in your sunlight, to soothe your soul in my moonlight, to speak the language only we can speak together. And so here I sit, my love, quivering in the silence....the same as every day since the moment I met you and there was a whisper from Fate which pulled me in....the same as it will, every day moving forward, until the time our souls have become satisfied, and fly their separate ways. But, my dearest, even with all my desperate heartbreak, I hope that day never comes; I would rather love you alone forever - but more - I would rather love you joined together, than to live without the meeting of our souls, sewn together through it all.

No, I Don't Hate Loving You

I don't hate loving you, my dear, my love. Even when my mind screams otherwise, the lament, " I hate you!" filling every breath, settling in my spine. But I don't hate loving you, no, love, I don't. I hate the soft silence in my bed upon waking, my first thought of you, as I breathe in the memory of your scent, wrapping my arms around the imaginary curve of your back. What I hate in this is the breathtaking loneliness that overcomes me, the heart-wrenching feeling of missing how perfectly your form met against mine...and now it is gone. I hate the despair I feel when you ignore me, because I fear I never mattered, I fear that meaninglessness will engulf my life in a sea of grey, and every time I see you the desperate beating of my heart will never be matched by yours. I hate my hunger for your laughter, and my discouraging fears that no one else's merriment will play with my heart quite as beautifully as yours does. I fear that no other sun shines as brightly as yours, and I hate that I had to tell you to leave. Why did I make you leave? I know I had to, but the guilt of that act sears me like acid, eating away the edges of my composure. I hate that you don't try, that you don't express the same longings that I do with open abandon. I hate that our roles reversed, and now yours is the closed-off stony facade, and my face is the one bearing tears. It hurts me that you have time for everyone else, that you respond and spend time with others, but not me. Am I meaningless to you? How can the thought of you settle upon my mind so oft throughout each day, yet I feel the same isn't true for you. Enough of pretense, for there are darker feelings, too. I want you to want me. Only me. With every breath you take, I want the pause upon inhaling to tighten your chest from the thought of me. I want each exhalation to come with the silent whisper of my name. I want you to feel my presence beside you at night, and curse the gods because I'm not truly there. I want to steal your laughter in a bottle and keep it all to myself. I want your arms to hold me when I am unwell, and your sympathetic voice to encourage me into health. I want my arms around you, breathing you into my soul, knowing you are doing the same. I want a second chance at loving you; an opportunity to dive in, to not hold back this time, to resist my fears and stop believing that our love was meant to be broken. I want your kisses which feel so natural that I could swear they were made only for me. I want your love, fiery, dynamic, yet sure, unquestioning. I want to know that when I return home from battle, you will be there to gently kiss my ring finger, to kiss my lips, to ever-so-tenderly kiss my forehead; the way you kiss me, seemingly with reverence, breaks open the chambers of my heart, strengthening each beat that follows. And yet... I want nothing from you. I want you to simply be you. I want you to have peace. I want to let you go, to move on, to find someone "better" - that someone who kept me from loving you completely because I feared I could feel their heartbeat in the distance, calling for my own. I'm confused, my darling, and I feel so befuddled and lost. I want you, I don't want you, I want someone whom I've never met yet, and I want no one ever again. I'm afraid to love you, I'm afraid to let you go, I'm afraid to want you, I'm...terrified to never long for you again. How great a tragedy it would be, to feel a love so magnitudinous only to let it blow away like sand and scatter into nothingness. Please don't make me let you go. Please tell me to let go. I'm not torn, but I feel my back breaking beneath these columns of hope and fear. I want to let my fears go...and just love...and let be. ...but... ...but.. Mine. Gimme.

"Depression" Isn't the Correct Term

I feel so jagged and shaken. Frightened, I can't catch my breath. I don't know which way to direct my gaze or which path to take. When I am depressed I can't move. My friends say, "Just break free and MOVE!" and... I'm so paralyzed. When I feel so trapped and stuck I just want to rip myself apart, but even then, I can't move. I hate so much in my life, but I swallow it - I don't want to hate. So I burn inside, instead. ...can't... I can't breathe... my vision fades in and out... my fingers are stiff and icy. I almost can't move even just to type. For long moments I stare blindly above the screen, incapable of existing - I forget to breathe, my heart nearly stops, then it pounds, and I feel more trapped.

The Price of Being an Artist

I hear people all the time say, "I wish I was an artist like you." but they really don't understand what it means to be an artist. They see the result, the art, and think having that skill is ONLY a bonus - an upgrade to "normal" life - a blessing from the Gods which magically wafted down to grace the bodies of the Chosen Ones. Here are some things that people who are not artists do not understand about life as an artist: 1. You will be asked for art ALL the time. This one is often a big "pet peeve" to artists, but not necessarily for reasons you think, and it's a bit different for every artist. As an artist, expect to be asked for art (constantly) by friends, family, everyone you date, teachers, fellow students, random children, random mothers of children, any stranger who sees you drawing, just about anyone who finds out you are an artist ever. The problem with this is that it feels very exploitative. It often feels as if the artist themselves are not valuable to others - except for the art they are willing to provide. There is an expectation to provide art to other people, MERELY because they want it. The more you are supposed to love someone, the more art you are EXPECTED to create FOR them - and usually without anything in return. This is NO different than any other ultimatum-type "requirement" that says, "If you love me, then you will..." - and it feels just as controlling as any other form of expectation put on love and friendship. I have even been called selfish, a bad friend, mean, lazy, self-centered, and accused of not loving or caring about others enough because I did not provide the artwork expected of me(without my consent). (Oh, does that mean non-artists aren't capable of as much love as artists because they don't provide art? Of course not.) To put this art-requesting into perspective, let me explain some of the artistic process: With a few rare exceptions, the better you are at art, the more time you have dedicated to it - and the more time you put into specific art pieces, the better and more intricate they become. To create a piece of art there can be a lot of emotions, imagination, thinking, intuition, and other subtle processes involved. There is a certain cost to supplies. And then there is the big cost of time. Non-artists are amazed at how quickly they see an artist produce a creation, stating nonsense like, "Wow, even if I worked on it for three months it wouldn't be half that good!" (I say this is nonsense, because they wouldn't even attempt that in the first place). But art DOES take a lot of time. When someone has an expectation of an artist to create an art piece for them, they are not only expecting that person to produce something meaningful and beautiful (which is a hefty expectation in and of itself - OUCH), but they are also expecting a lot of time to be dedicated to "prove" that they are loved by the artist - often without even realizing it. Should I say to you, "Hey, you love me, right? So that means you're going to do something to prove it to me that will take 5-20+ hours of your time and give it to me in the next week or so. Right?" Because that's what non-artists are saying to artists when they request art. AND they feel they have a RIGHT to do so and that the artist is obligated to provide it. And this is expected on a fairly regular basis - otherwise they must not love the non-artist enough. Now, what if the artist does agree to provide art? Then the artist is hounded CONSTANTLY for results. It becomes the only reason the non-artist checks in on you, the first question they ask (even before "how are you?"), the last thing they "jokingly" berate you on not accomplishing before they leave.... and heaven forbid you do ANY other art than their request before their request is finished and delivered. *shudder* The non-artist becomes offended, icy, angry, hurt, feels betrayed, feels like they are not loved enough, and feels a lot of negativity toward the artist (who is still expected to finish the piece). All of this weight is put on the artist as if the artist has done some terrible misdeed. Rude statements like, "Oh, I see how it is - you had time to do YOUR art, but didn't have time to work on mine!" may be said in a joking tone, but it always comes with a heavy undertone of blame and resentment. The guilt I feel as an artist for not meeting the expectations of those around me, and the fear of receiving these demands for expected free art that comes in a package of nagging and blame, plague me so strongly that I will go months without completing a single piece of my own artwork - because if I do, I feel like a bad person. If I do, I feel like I will be resented and harassed by people who I am supposed to love. 2. The crazy idea that art is too expensive. This is a big one. People see a piece of original artwork they admire on an 8x10" piece of paper, then they see a pricetag of $30 and think it is too expensive - when really, the artist is ripping themselves off on charging $30 for it. Why? Because a nice piece of artwork on an 8x10" probably took them anywhere from 4-12 hours. Let's do some math here, if they get $30 for the piece, and spent 4 hours to create it, the artist is being paid a mere $7.50 per hour for their trade (a trade that requires spending YEARS studying and developing their skill with a minority of the population even being born with that talent). At $30, if they spent 12 hours on that piece, they earned a wonderful $2.50 per hour. Great. So what is that piece of art really worth? Well, let's say that they only charge $10 per hour for it - right there, that is $40-120. Let's just stop with the math calculations, we all know that unless the artist is famous (and often even then) they aren't going to get that much for an 8-10" piece of art. Hooray for having a skill that won't even pay minimum wage. 3. Speaking of money, the next misconception non-artists have about artists is the expectation that the artist will become rich. My whole life I have been told that I will be rich because of my art. From early childhood I was brainwashed with this notion that being an artist equates to having your art sell at a high price. Not only is this typically not true (see above), but it isn't exactly good for a person's self-esteem when they are a broke 25 year old who hasn't lived up to everyone's expectations of glory and riches. Not only that, but this completely ignores a very important aspect of selling art - and that is, who is going to sell it? You see, artists' minds behave differently than non-artists, and while this is generally accepted when it comes to positive attributes, when the perceived attributes are considered negative, the artist is blamed and often thought of as being lazy, anti-social, and lacking a "do whatever it takes" mentality. Non-artists simply do not accept that artists brains often do not (and cannot) conceive how to run a business, advertise, sell, network, and promote their art - in the EXACT same way that non-artists do not (and cannot) conceive how an artist "just sees the art," "draws and it magically turns into something," gives their imaginings a physical form, and creates masterpieces. Yes, an artist CAN learn to do many of the technical business thingies (I am an artist afterall, so "thingies" is a technical term for me) that non-artists expect of them, but it is usually PAINFUL and unnatural. How about this for a change? If it’s so easy, YOU DO IT. The non-artist wants to benefit from the artist anyway, so why don’t they become a dedicated business partner and actually make a profit together? The artist will take care of the supply, the non-artist can take care of the demand. Seems simple right? WRONG. Because every time I’ve suggested it the non-artist doesn’t follow through. Meaning their criticisms are empty and running a business and promoting art is difficult for non-artists, too. Believe me, as an artist, I would loooooooooooove to be able to just do my art and have someone else take care of the managing and promoting aspects. Are you kidding me? I’d do it full-time. We’d both be rich (have you seen my art? It’s amazing). But, alas, non-artists are just as flaky as artists. So stop stereotyping us artists as being unreliable and flaky! 4. Depression. Have I ever met an artist who doesn’t have some form of depression or lack of self-esteem? Not yet. Oh, I’m sure they’re out there, but most likely that’s because they’ve worked through the depths of depression and have come out the other side. There’s something with the way our minds work, combined with our perceived failures and inadequacies, that creates a sense of disappointment and causes us to feel depressed. Praise from non-artists are only half-believed by the artist because the artist knows exactly in the art piece where they were unable to accomplish what they wanted; also, the artist knows that the art piece is monetarily worthless, especially compared to the hourly compensation they could expect from selling it. (You see, artists aren’t necessarily possessive of their art, they just think it’s stupid to receive inadequate pay for what they put into the piece) This monetary worthlessness translates into a feeling of, “my greatest talent and passion is worthless” which is a pretty depressing feeling. Not only that, but often non-artists respond to art in very negative ways even when they have very positive feelings about it, mostly because of their own feelings of jealousy. It’s difficult to have an admired skill that comes paired with statements like, “I hate you so much,” especially when you just gave that person an art-piece as a gift. It is confusing and depressing. I feel like I am a bad person because I create reactions of jealousy, insecurity, and low self-esteem in others. And the only thing I did wrong was to create amazing art. Why was Van Gogh my favorite artist as a kid? Because he was the only famous artist I knew of who I could identify with the level of depressed inner turmoil and feelings of insanity. Fun stuff. 5. You’ve already read me saying that artists spend years to develop their talent into a proficient skill, but let me lay it out for you a bit. I began drawing when I was about 1 year old – now that’s not impressive yet, but does an engineer begin developing their trade at that age? Usually not. Growing up, I spent more time drawing than I did doing any other activity – including studying and sleep (though the sleep part may be because I was plagued by terrible insomnia). As a child and early teen I would spend a minimum of 4-6 hours of drawing a day, often surpassing 8-12 hours. That means, out of each year of my life, I spent a minimum of 1,460 hours training for my profession. Over the course of 15 years (because let’s say I maybe drew less than 4 hours a day for about 10 years’ worth of my life), I dedicated more than 21,900 hours toward developing my artistic skills. That’s about 912 full days, or two and a half SOLID years out of that 15, spent improving and developing my abilities. What mad skills could you have if you spent 2.5 out of 15 years entirely on training? This is exactly why I respond to that annoying question, “I wish I could do art like you!” with the response, “You could if you dedicated as much time as I have to it.” Art isn’t a magical gift from the Gods. As artists, we are blessed with a spark, with the possibility of creation – but so are many non-artists as well. What makes an artist is not that spark of talent, but rather the overtaking power that art has over our minds – our entire existence. Art is in everything we see, it is the medium through which we express ourselves to the world, and how we experience every facet of our lives. Art is the silent scream of terror or cry of exultation. Art is our voice, our tears, our madness spilling beyond the bounds of our body – because our body isn’t big enough to house it. Art is a gift, and a curse, and it is everything, and nothing. It is our most precious treasure, and it is completely useless. Art both connects us to others and isolates us from them. Art is the expressions of our insanity that keep us sane – whilst simultaneously pulling us deeper into the depths. Art brings us adoration and resentment, awe and jealousy. Art liberates and ensnares us. Art is the anthem to which each beat of our heart plays until we march into our graves.