Journal entry. May twenty fourth, twenty twenty six.

Throughout my whole life nothing has felt less than heavy. All that I know is that everything I feel is an illusion of desired fulfilment and the loss of pure innocence. Every moment I understand myself no more than before, less perhaps. Though I feel I need to find more of myself through solitude, I feel that I am exactly where I want to be.

I’m not very good at many of my own passions, but I have this habit of returning to them over and over again, long after I should’ve stopped. I can keep going past exhaustion, past embarrassment, past the point of its worth. Not because I’m talented, just because I don’t know how to leave them alone once they’ve got hold of me. I want to become an embodiment of my passion, not through talent but through devotion, until devotion becomes indistinguishable from the self. Through my own belief that feels more artistic, something that outlives talent. I see a space for something so artistically desirable and I want to become it.

In some way I must have always felt connected to these spaces. I see a space within myself that feels artistically necessary, and I keep returning to it. Through repetition and withdrawal into thought, I try to move closer to it. I don’t always do this by completely escaping my reality, but sometimes by deepening my attention within it. I am my own embodiment of my artistic desire, without my own self it would not exist.

Through obsessive behaviour, starvation, through love and passion, isolation and transformation. I am no longer shameful of the ways I have reached my own self.