I really resent some stuff I say demands you to be stoned or on drugs for them to be interesting. But Metaphor is the only language to talk about some things. How possibly else could I speak about the feeling of being so seen yet so caged on someone's gaze. Am I crazy? Are you crazy? Are we crazy? How can some things be so impersonal yet so intimate? Why we keep forgetting who we are? The play behind all of this is: I will pretend to be this, while you pretend to be that. You can be something for me to love, or to forgive, to confuse myself with, or we could do art, or we could learn something, or we could fold origami paper into birds, or we could do nothing. Whatever. Can we just accept we are accepted?
/Jun26