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       self-inflicted

self infliction

My world is confused and gray. I never know what to say to you I never know how to act. My pain only escapes when I hurt myself. A simple act of striking myself against something hard, throwing myself over, making myself embarrassed once again for the sake of feeling something.

I lost everything long ago. I have everything. But it seems like forever. I reminisce and think about all the things that shape who I am and nothing sticks. Nothing seems real. Fucked up in time. Blended. Smeared. There's only one place I can go, one place I can call my own. In this time and space I call art I find something to hold onto. I'm ready to fuck it all up. I'm ready to express it all somehow.

It is a figment of your imagination. It exists in your mind. I love him and I don't know why. You love her and you don't know why. You don't want to look but you must and you don't know why. It is a noise. You hear this noise in your mind and it all becomes clear. But why? When does art and life blend like the passionate pieces and places and times in your life always seem to blend? Day after day, you wonder and you come back. You always come back.



"blood" photography by deborah jaffe - in camera art (no photoshop)





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the hard hand to hold

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