i’m not a moving statue you can control with any statutes but i’m not a stuffed puppet you can tug at the heartstrings of, you can’t dismiss the blood in my veins or the thoughts running in my brain but you can’t **** on me dry or lead my thoughts astray, i’m not in black and white but i’m more than a colourful mess, i’m more than a broken child of the universe but i’m not, yet, a god or a goddess.

i’m the impersonation of a god when i need to be and a child when i want to be. i’m the personification of versatility. the duality, but at least three. i’m a moving statue if i will it, or a stuffed puppet with a beating heart inside of it. my hands are cold because they’re dry but the bottom of my throat is full of blood and warmth and life. the thoughts imprisoned in my head are waiting to be set free — with the aid of an outlaw on the outside — and into a dog-eared safe haven; a heaven, if you may, with black lines and white skies, colours chaotic and alive, it lacks order but it’s not a mess. it’s a multiverse. and i, an artist who mastered the art of to be and not to be, and the versatile state of instability, happen to be a god over there.

and it’s only because i want to be.

(free will is a triviality, though, isn’t it? you’re only a god because you will it, but the others — can they see it?)