#arstext

[arskine]

deliberate acts of self destruction. thinking about this. it’s weird isn’t it? i think i need to hang out with friends more often

[arskine]

lane, they/them. artwork in my header is beaver swamp by lawren harris. i follow from a different blog

[arskine]

there’s something equal parts of humbling and awed when i find out an artwork that i love was created on a small canvas. the most moving piece of art i’ve ever seen, and i could hold in one hand. all the wonder and love that i feel came from one page in a sketchbook, or from one canvas in a series of dozens more. everything massive is smaller than you think when it’s right in front of you

[arskine]

i can imagine wind in my bones pretty easily. it’s like a snowglobe that someone has shaken and placed down

[arskine]

i’m at a crossroads but i’ve never stopped moving. what? how do you stop, anyways? i don’t think you can. it’s all slow and fast and constant.

[arskine]

she stood in the frame of my unclosed door, silhouetted by the hallway’s lights. a creak of the floorboards as she shifts. i’m tucked under the covers fast asleep.

if she was closer, she looks like she might run her hand through my hair. it’s shorter now, and maybe that would make her distantly sad.

we used to wear the same jean jacket. it’s hanging there in my closet. it has her patches on it. all from places she went to, cities that she saw. she loved it. and it keeps me warm when i wear it.

she leans back on her heels, movement overtaking her as she begins to turn. then, back turned, she pauses. i’ve moved in my sleep. i’m facing her now.

she’ll never ask for her jean jacket back. when i wear it, i won’t see her in my reflection. i’ll get older, and she won’t. when i wake up, i might wonder if i missed the last time she smiled. when was the first time that smile was mine?

where does she end, and where do i begin? she isn’t me, but so much of her is here. i’ll wear my favourite jacket. i won’t know if it’s mine. sorry. i’ll sleep better once she closes the door anyways.

[arskine]

it’s all a lack of things really i think. what is there except not enough? there’s never enough