venargo

[venargo]

[venargo]

sloth.

what am I supposed to do to love this life that I own, a little more? to get rid of this fatigue, to see beauty all around me, to appreciate evry little thing and not be upset over a minor inconvenience?

sloth, tired, lost, never found, never slightly content. a smile stops at the corner of my mouth. it doesn't make its way all the way up towards the ear. my teeth are seen, after that failed smile, like a timelapse of a flower dying.

a flower. dying.

when is it my time to bloom? I'm only on my knees, struggling to get myself up. how strange it is to abandon and still be the abandoned. I want to be good.

I want to be good. I do not want to be left behind. I want to be a woman.

a woman, who could find the strength to cook for you, make you dizzy with the smell of cinnamon rolls fresh out of the owen. who could leave all her deadly sins behind, who could restrain all the anger, or whatever that awful feeling is, and would put her hand on your shoulder, comfortingly.

then I would be beautiful, I would have nice nails, nice hair, bright under eyes, I would bring you tea, coffee, or whatever you like while you do whatever you do. I would force my smile if I had to. I would get along with kids, I would be able to wear skirts in the winter, I would carry a fancy bag on my shoulder, I would have a lot of things to do, a lot of friends.

we would laugh, get drunk, get passionate, you would be amazed just by looking at the narrowly open mouth on my face, with a warm breath caressing your cheek, leaving a humid, funny feeling right there and then. I would be able to get out of the bed, finally, show my legs, how beautiful and white they are, I would move around elegantly like a swan, instead of sitting around with a stiff neck and a hunch back.

if I could ever stop thinking, thinking and doing nothing else, only thinking, torturing myself with the trembling thoughts of anxiety of all kinds, then I would smile when I first wake up every morning. I would tidy up the bed, plan the day, find a way, always look beautiful, not haunting, not tired, not hateful, just beautiful.

if only I could talk, with actual words and without hesitations, easily able to express whatever is going on in my mind. and those would be easy things, not a trace of complexity, I would have a comforting personality, like a real woman, instead of tears running down my face, you would see sparkles in my eyes. you would even think that you would be able to see my soul through my pupils if you stare long enough. I would be reachable. not distant.

I would be a real woman then, with real friends, real things to do, without feeling like I am constantly begging for something, even though I ask for things when I really need to, but then I wouldn't need any of that, those things would just find me.

if I had real nice clothes, if I had the will to do my hair, a real job and a clue about what to do with my life. then you would feel the softness, that strange feeling you get from a 'real' woman, who you could imagine being an amazing mother, a sister perhaps, with a soft voice, and feather-like touch.

but I abandoned everyone, every place, every dream, every corner and never turned back. then I found myself being abandoned instead. my sister, my friends, my brother, my favorite coffee shops, my favorite copy of my favorite book, my favorite spot at the university where I spent years, the same path I took to go anywhere, they all have forgotten me. maybe with an upleasent aftertaste, but still forgotten. have I ever existed? have I ever achieved anything? how far am I from the image of a "real woman" that's stuck in my head? these smiling faces, do they smile because they pity me and feel awkward, or do they smile because they just can't help it?

seeing people smile has always been the only working method for me to make sure to validate my own existence. what if everyone just stopped smiling? why does it always have to be so pathetic for me? what a hypocrite, I tell to myself, lost in these thoughts: you think you got all figured out, you only know how to think, and you have no clue how to actually do anything. you just sit there, or lay down, gaze upon other's lives, and your clock is ticking, louder every passing second, you're getting old, everyone around you has actually figured all out, you're the bizarre one. all you do is to sit there and stare. consume. eat. drink. smoke. watch. read. think. think. think.

then you blame everything, as if they have stolen something from you, but you know well that it is you who has to build the things you want so badly, yet you always choose to remain motionless, as if you're not a part of this world, you're just... there.

you bite your nails, battle your unimportant thoughts, and rot in your bed. you gave up on planning things, you gave up on crafting, you gave up on all your instruments, even your camera, now they also have forgotten you. even you don't remember who you are anymore.

you just want to be good. be good. behave. be a real woman. be worthy of love.

アナタ 、怠惰 デスね

[venargo]

[venargo]

[venargo]

[venargo]

Wioleta Marut

[venargo]

Vassilis Karidis

[venargo]

The End of Summer (Yasujiro Ozu, 1961)

[venargo]

Portrait of Jane Birkin by Patrick Lichfield, 1969

[venargo]

[venargo]

[venargo]

[venargo]

[venargo]

Anne Sexton ("The Truth the Dead Know") Charlotte Eriksson (Everything Changed When I Forgave Myself)

[venargo]

[venargo]

chappell roan backstage at her midwest princess tour 🪽

[venargo]

The Need of Art   -   Tomasa Martin

Spanish,b.1960-

Oil on linen 40 x 40x3,5 cm.