Mar 30, 2016
This is not art. This really happened.
Shall I Instagram the day I spent in bed? The vomit I purged after three hours of violent cries? This is not art. This really happened. Should I write down all the thoughts I can catch in the throes of deep depression? Just to see you close your eyes and return to one size fits all expectations? This is not art. This really happened. Fear keeps people, even those that love you, at bay. Fear clouds how you're seen, like steam against the glass shower door. We forget who we are. We forget how we're supposed to be. This is not art. This really happened. Unnecessarily.