The Rebirth of Artemis

These are the kinds of things I want to remember about school. Not the pointless readings, the repetitive essays I've had and will continue to write, the people who will never understand me or what I am about, all the bullshit of academia. I want to remember art, the only thing, as I've come to realize, that makes this shit worthwhile. I've decided to double major in Environmental Studies and Studio Art, and I hope to find a balance and understanding of the two during my college career. I know in choosing to study art, I'm going to open so many doors to the creativity and I am letting my truest desires be reborn. I know that it won't all be easy and fun, but in the end, I hope to love what I do here and what I will make of myself when I'm done. I hate going against my own nature, disrupting the flow of energy that makes me who I am. And that's exactly what I've been doing, and it's time for it to end. It is time for the rebirth of my true spirit, the girl locked away wrapped in shadows of misconception. It is her rebirth. The Rebirth of Artemis.

I see their pieces and start to gush from the incision like slashes, their art, the lush strokes of brush strokes bring the gashes. I get choked up from their story telling tea stains and coloured reminiscence deep drained from the ditches of their psyches. I lurch forward, double over with the impact- intact- in that I can't touch back, the way it touches me as an invisible surface divides the sides we stand on, trying too hard to wash back with the tides. It is spirit and I am bone, dethroned in the face of perspective. Rejected by the lines, lost in mechanical lights is where I tend to see them. The little dying tendrils, rolling off hands onto paper parchments distant lands.

it starts in the act of lifting up a rock to uncover the mosses and fungus and bugs. it takes this one lift to realize the world of immaculate chaos under layers of our hair and skin. It's where it begins, like sin in a strip joint, the unfaithful 'good night' of a liar, sneaking out to foreign bedrooms, the ensuing glitter midriff of a tree plucked so much she is barren. It is a harem, abattoir where the faithful find themselves facing the firing squad with minds full of human bodies.

and i could feel you like waking up with night sweats, the wet pillow, the blood and tears, the eyes a weeping willow, waking up from a bad dream. I can't function I can't follow, the lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow your razor tongue French kiss. I can't handle this. I don't know what it's about. I've been in it for months and I still don't understand just give up shut down and take my hand take my hand take it slow and notice, the things you couldn't notice before.