Pour l'amour.
art work by Shiori Matsumoto
I was happy to stumble upon Shiori Matsumoto's work earlier today so I thought I might share her with you.
Please visit her here.
I believe that most true writers are insane. I do not mean writers who are necessarily brilliant and profound, but the writer who earns the title because the act of writing itself is a requisite to life. This isn't exclusive of the wild scribes who feverishly translate their minds into a language through the middle of the night, but of all artists who find refuge in creation and self expression of any kind. Nothing can penetrate the veraciousness which spreads itself across a sheet of paper, rough canvas, or modern glass screen. The potent melodies of pain and pleasure heard from voices and instruments enslaved by rapid fingers. It's truth to behold. Or at least it is often intended to be. By ignoring excessive thought and letting my subconscious embrace me I can discover knowledge, I perhaps wasn't ready for yet. I've always possessed a deep aspiration to live honestly. In my eyes, habitually lying to yourself exhibited weakness, but there are people that are obviously happier living this way so who am I to fuck with their sense of contentment. We all lie to ourselves on some level.
I have convictions and strong feelings toward my ideals. Life is to be lived to the fullest, genuine companions deserve every shred of my loyalty, and love can make one either exuberant or mad, but it is ultimately rare in it's truest form. I used to say only the gods could be capable of a persistent and eternal love in which I had dreamt up in the very idealistic though endlessly hopeful corners of my mind. There was a hint of reality to my beliefs, however because I'd already taken a bite of that apple when I was very young. Jaded by love at sixteen is never a desired kind of road, though the signs sparkled and glistened at me. I had to go. Love may be arroused naturally and you and I, the keepers, are exalted for as long as it remains eminent. However, reality has always been honest and confesses that it can die. Considering our conflicts and individual spurts of growth in all directions of our mind, I believe eternal love is something that has to be nourished...and fed to the root of it's cause. The feelings remain but the routine or petty aspects of life can kill the taste until it withers. Almost the saddest way for love to die of all, when it's killed unknowingly and slips like spoilt honey down the drain. In another case we fight to burrow into our strength and build it from the first brick up when they willingly mount the gut of betrayal. Then the other lover was never true.
My brain is rampaging tonight. My heart is like a stone and my body is very cold. I still fantasize about being alone because I think I would find more strength without an invisible love to bind me. Then my mind shifts to the opposite and I wonder about saying those words, leaving him, and making myself available again. The latter makes me feel typical. Especially since it is washed away like flimsy debris upon seeing his face again. In his presence I am completely taken by love, I am submissive. I used to hate being told I was a 'romantic' because it was always in this fashion: "Well you are a romantic so...", as if the normal rules didn't apply to me then. The ideal me and the me of two years ago was far more of a love fighter. Although it was not her preference - She wholeheartedly believed you could wait out distance as long as there was promise in the end. A prize to get to. The image of our future is nebulous. But no matter how much I desire his happiness and his passion to flourish, there is a permanent stain which can't be effaced when deep down a part of me will always feel my love chose something over me. Sacrificed a part of my own happiness when they might have waited another year or two. My love is not exceptional and if I analyze it too much it's not even as strong as I would want someone to love me. It is ridiculously human, but there is a possibility it is from all the past neglect and heart abuse. He cannot call me for the lack of 'telephone', and yet he doesn't even write me. No subtle effort to stay connected or put a peg into this hole in my chest, temporarily solve this distance. He is so untormented by the fact that I am here and he is there, and how it irritates me will never go away. If he is readily attentive it seems more so because he has made an effort for my sake, and my sense of unity. The urge isn't present. The urge I find so consuming. I've taught myself to detach, subconsciously!...I've learned to live without him.
(but I fucking will always love you)