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The only fact which makes me an artist is the shifty-hearted inner conflict I worship invariably to my lifetime. Invariably thinking of design, how to manipulate the illusion to get closer to, to people, structures, patterns, codes, the world, to penetrate, a shifted across, make it visible, enlarge its beauty. The beauty of creation.
I don’t accept the state as it is.
Absorb black.
When did people stop to begin.
When do people start to realize that all what is is unreal. When do we stop to talk, think, and be for which we are not.
I am dying since I draw my first line. I am bleeding since I learned my first word, the beginning of the conceptual fuckup in my head. The wall which surrounds all of us. Not even our shadows reach the top of it.
Invariably I am contemplating.
I am still the boy who wants to save the world.
The boy who wants to be heard by his parents. The world which can’t be saved as it is in all of us. And the man who dares not to disgrace its beauty anymore. I am only spitting on you humankind.
And there I am again, in rage. I wanted to write about my deep rooting and festering unhappiness, about me still not being connected to what I miscall the artist inside of me. About my depression I was always stronger connected to, as I feel, I see, I hear, I Wolf with all my senses, how the hell can you live and be not depressed and why are we not doing it, changing it, or string us up, push the button, which would be the only fair and sustainable solution.
But I believe in you, because I believe in me, that one day I will take a breath and I feel light. And I will not know what comes next.