amelia10amelia10

[amelia10amelia10]

Can’t sleep.

An artists head is golden Fill to the brim, no where to go but the pages, paper Sheet after sheet, square after metre Converting to canvas Switching to sculpture All just tryna understand each other. It is not an aesthetic It’s a statement, an emotion Thoughts on paper, cardboard, canvas For what? To be seen in a show on the gram or just placed in a pile of unwanted Uncherished shit that means nothing but something. An insight, into a mind that is broken yet works, it makes sense of all yet makes nothing? No understanding just a meaning and a thought that makes no sense yet stands as such power and instead tells all. An artists Mind is pure gold, unlock it for the creation the patience the thinking the pain. What comes with such understanding, such fascination comes a responsibility to see. A child sees before it can talk. An artist sees, thinks And knows. And that’s what keeps them up at night.

[amelia10amelia10]

[amelia10amelia10]

[amelia10amelia10]

explore

[amelia10amelia10]

we were liars by e. lockhart

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[amelia10amelia10]

When I was younger I used to lie on my conservatory floor and stare up at the clouds. If i stared at them long enough, I would be able to make it feel like it wasn't the clouds moving, but I was. My mind would pretend I was on a boat on the sea and I was floating away. I would never think about where, on this boat, I was going but as the clouds moved and I imagined the boat more, my body would feel as though it was moving. Obviously it was all in my head, but i felt excited yet peaceful. Its memories like this that make me miss childhood.

[amelia10amelia10]

A favourite feeling.

5:00pm. The sun has hit its golden hour. The air has a warmth, whilst there is a soft breeze. An English breeze, that blows through washed hair. Whilst clean there is still a remanence of the salty water. Gritty from the sand. Clothes are fresh whilst hanging on a body that feels strong. A strength achieved from the strains of riding the waves, But it isn’t painful. It feels just right, if that is possible. No shoes. Feet are worn from the stones yet eased by the warm shower water. Acoustic music playing through the different environment, Praising the sun and welcoming the evening. Drinks on the balcony are specific. Bacardi and coke in a tall green tinted cup, Sitting on the table waiting for mum to bring the nibbles. Dad has his feet up on the table. Grey shorts. Stripy T-shirt. Playing with the music. The smells of aftershave meet with the calming sound of the waves. Constant. Brother joins from his shower. The other putting on socks whilst on the sofa. I am sitting. Taking in this second of feelings, 27 lines at once. No Bahamas, Just the English sea, Visible in this moment. Glorious.

[amelia10amelia10]

So, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we’ll never know most of them. But even if we don’t have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them.

[amelia10amelia10]

[amelia10amelia10]

The sunflower dances in the beams of the setting sun. Just beautiful.

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Smart shorts but rips in my tights