I went away for a month. Here's some proof.






































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vomit on the side of the road.

I never felt close enough bracketed in your arms So I worked myself a place under your tongue and between your ribs Crawled inside of you. Hands in your hair, fingernails gripping into flesh – Choked by the need to live between your bed sheets Suffocated by you. I swallowed down the words that made their way up my throat like sick, I let blood and tears and sweat come out of me – (I fucking hate running but I ran every day for four months to get my feelings for you out of me through my pores) But the only thing that made sense for us was language (sometimes). Each day I'd sit in a classroom and make up stories and all of them were about you. (I kept a dictionary next to my bed for a year to find new ways to explain love and heartbreak.) We wrote letters and tried to make metaphors but nothing was enough Nothing was good enough for you Everything was too much for you so I tried to make a home for you Between pa...
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love: by an artist/aries

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How much can Napisan fix? How much are you supposed to cry over a break up? How much time looking at homewares in K-Mart and IKEA are you allowed to do without being classified as insane? Asking for a friend. Artists of all descriptions have this really special ability to dive really deep into their feelings. And quite often the more upsetting ones are the ones we dwell on and sit with. Heartache is good for nothing but the arts. We create the most from our sadness. On top of that though, there's love . It's pretty fucking dreamy and nice and joyous and exciting (and terrible on your nerves) and distracting and liberating. It's also a great feeling to explore as an artist. A lot of people will create floaty, flowery pieces of work to celebrate love. Me included. However a couple of months ago I birthed this piece of work. Here she is. In all her angry, aggressive, agonising glory.
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Where else will I see you? In a museum that's showing an exhibition we both want to see. A library, staring at books, staring at each other – my arm around your shoulders. A coffee shop, sharing a pot of tea, me itching to reach out to hold your hand. I was never allowed to touch, so I settled for sending text messages at midnight and sending your favourite flowers to your doorstep. Where else will I run into you? I’ve seen you once this year – at a concert. We stood right next to each other at the bar. I thought I was going to die. You didn’t look my way. I couldn’t look away. Where else would I see you? In another city? In another life? Maybe this one wasn’t meant for us. I dredge up the past, beat myself up, and cut myself down. I stare at developed photos of you that I keep in envelopes and allow myself to cry for weeks. Memory lane is the only street that allows us to exist because no one else did. It allows me to acknowledge that I ...
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