Small memories that make my chest ache.
I'm still working to identify why some of them do.
Maybe they don't need to be defined or recognized.
That's okay, too.
I imagine them being insignificant from an outside perspective... seen as mere moments passing, sights only slightly seen in between other *******.
Queue flashback.
Burn cruising down residential streets, Lana Del Rey's song "Ride" and everything else on that **** mix cd, late autumn, my "old but new" golden SUV making the first tracks in freshly fallen snow... foggy eyes... ******... alone... but it's okay, I enjoy my company.
Desperate for something bigger than myself... beyond myself.
Queue flashback.
My old bedroom.
My parent's driveway, sneakily smoking a midnight bowl and coming back inside with frosty fingers ready to make more art.
A little buffer, you know?
A lot more simple of a life among all the drama, the past lovers, the drugs, the adventures.
Queue flashback.
The sunlight on my skin on a country road looking for abandoned houses with my friends.
Passing around a joint and screaming along to the same songs over and over again.
Finding magic within decaying walls and gravels roads.
Being set free when I'm creating for me.
I see my art as something beyond a hobby, because it's a deep part of me.
It's nostalgia wrapped up in between the sheets of my empathy, apathy, and curiosity.
Nostalgia is my addiction... it's dancing with some ******* friction.
My partners are the past and my reality in a surreal scene.
I create my lovers and they create me.