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I want to try. I want to work and learn and collect, but I don’t.

Sometimes I’m not even scared anymore, just sad and tired. I feel too old and too young to have become this way. And I feel more and more everyday just how it hurts. It brings me back to reality.

And much to my disdain- brings me back to life.

I don’t have much else to say, I’m sad and scared and tired, and still somehow hopeful.

Somehow I believe that I will save my life. That I will lift my head and walk out the door.

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I think I might be waiting to die- which is not something I want- but it is something I am used to wanting.

It’s stuck on me- and very hard to shake off.

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—All my life I’ve held the guilt of wanting to run, to be so far from everyone and everything I’ve ever known. But the guilt of the feeling doesn’t make the feeling leave. I don’t know what it says about me that I’ve wanted to start again before ever getting the chance of a beginning. And I don’t know nor do I want to know what it says about me that I’ve never tried, to start my life, to change my life, to leave the one I have now- the one that brings me nothing. I think it is too late but I’ve always thought that it was too late, even as a child I thought my time was done, that it meant nothing and never would. I’m sure there is a way out but I’ve always felt too small to find it or too late.—

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God just make me rich I’m too tired to do it

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Not sinner nor saint.

Things are more equal on paper - canvas

I don’t wear blue- I do paint in blue

respect for things that exist without you- that is why I am so angry at the world, and still not a angry person

My soul is clean of unreasoned hate- I will still point the finger at the dirty ones- the unforgiving ones- mostly because they have nothing to forgive- they are only angry because no one owes them anything

—but still I have done no good, just sat here really

and done no bad- not sinner nor saint-

I am nothing really- I have built myself with scrap pieces and I didn’t notice how many pieces have fallen away through time and I can’t walk anymore, talk, be, live. I breathe though, That’s more than most.

I am not ungrateful, I do understand. I am just cold and strange and mostly confused. When I say my name I don’t see anything. Like I don’t exist, that is the consequence of indecision.

Make choices fail bad, fail good, I think it will feel better than this.

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Sometimes I feel like my mother likes that I don’t know how to function like a normal person. She calls me her Buddha because I listen and make her feel better about her problems. She knows if I could work and live like other people I would leave. I would have left a long time ago, and I wouldn’t take care of her anymore. I think I could be great If I knew how, If I wasn’t always so scared. But now I’m even scared of being here. I’ll leave one way or another, I’ll die if I have too.

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I light these fucking candles, everyday, I study the colors and the meanings.- I light these candles, put faith in them- to bring me something- anything- money, a lover, a life. Something, but all I have in a room that smells like ash. And for some reason I can only dream when I’m awake. Maybe if the nights weren’t so dark I could be a more hopeful person. But I just make things up like my faith in these candles, and colors, and random numbers. I try to pretend that I really do believe it, that I have this fire in me, a spark, a shrine. Something that will carry me somewhere away from a room that smells like ash, I pretend that I believe I deserve anything else. Most of the time I am quite convinced, but most of the time I am dreaming.

——

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I believe if I lived alone I would be a real person. I’m here, and I am an extension of my family. I have a burning faith in me that I will go far, that I will become someone more like myself. I would be kinder, more curious. I feel stuck in their vision of me, or my vision of what I assume they think of me. I would change— I would be a creation of myself, my passions. My soul is unending in color. I am a real person, I think I am the only one who can’t see it. If I never leave it will be like I never existed at all.

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If anyone’s interested in buying a painting, message me.

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I have found my own life in the trees, the way they move, and feel; the way the light hits them like they are the real gods.They have given me an unending faith. They have shown me the true glory of life. They are the purest form.

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Till the end of the world, to the beginning of another, I took his last breath into me and held it as I sunk deeper and deeper. I saw everything move. I saw the world change, and I waited. If there is another world now, there will have to be another him. I will wait for him to come again. I don't believe I can pull myself out. I'll have to be put back together again. I think I've become rotten in the mud. I haven't moved for so long that I feel I may no longer be in one piece. The only movement I have felt is the snakes sleeping in my ribs. They keep me warm—like a passion. Like a burning in me, telling me to move. Pulling at my ankles, I think I should wait.

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[laniewrite]

Hayao Miyazaki on AI

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My dream- my only dream since deciding not to kill my self has been to become a successful or even slightly successful painter and move to Italy. It makes sense to have a plan b, I know, but it's been hard enough for me to even have a plan a. I don’t really know why I was such a sad child, but strangely it seems I’ve grown out of it. Not completely of course, but I have had no desire to kill myself. I paint everyday. I hold on to the hope that I will one day be painting in Italy. I will live. I will live as long as this body allows me. I often have the feeling that there is no time left for me, but I am so young, and I can keep trying. I will try as long as this body allows me.