Of Versions & Cravings.

Bathed in artificial sunlight in a drunken haze, we all become a certain version of ourselves: Brave Spartan, Bitchy Fashionista, Silly Joker, Dancing God, Sex Symbol, Art Fag, Talkative Junkie. All of these personalities melt together in a crowded dance floor, hands raised to the heavens, praising a god high on the pedestal, spewing blessings of music and love that pulses through everyone’s veins and by the end of the night, if you’re lucky, you disappear with someone else’s version of themselves.

As I raise my hands up, feeling the confetti rain down on me as if they cleansed me of every bad feeling I accumulated over the week, I close my eyes and I let the moment envelope me like a child in her mother’s caress.

I move around in that drunken haze, feeling like that wittier version of myself, somewhere in between an overly indulgent art fag & a dancing god. I realize though, while warm bodies collide with mine, the definition of partying has become different for me. It was no longer about the sex, the alcohol and sometimes, the drugs. It was now about the music and the company, the feeling of being so high on the moment that there is quite possibly no chemical that could replicate that feeling.

Though it was somewhere in-between euphoria and being sober that it hit me: the craving of sharing the moment with a lover. No, I was not about to look for a temporary fix because that is not what I wanted or craved.

I craved for the lover who was thousands of miles away, the lover who I wasn’t even sure would be my lover come the time the Universe allowed us to collide but I knew, in that moment that I craved for him. In the middle of the dance floor, I stood there, watching versions upon versions of strangers and acquaintances intertwining and latching onto each other and I looked and looked but I couldn’t find anything.

Until I closed my eyes and let everything drown me again.

I craved not for drugs but for euphoria. I craved not for sex but for intimacy. I craved not for hugs but for warmth. I craved not for kissing but for love. I craved not for drunkenness but for courage. I craved not for food but for satisfaction. In that moment, I craved because every breath I inhaled reminded me how much of him lingers within me, despite the distance, despite the lack of interaction.

This lover is my sex, my drug, my alcohol, my music, my art. He creates this version of me that wants to take risks and leap into the dangerous unknown. With the thought of him, I am a version of myself that wants to give love to the world with nothing in return.

I crave him not because of obsession, I crave him because he crawls within the depths of my dirty soul and kisses me deeply where it hurts.

And it was there, underneath the bright lights & the crowded floor, I have found the version of myself that was willing to love again.

This Time, Be Braver.

Whatever course you decide upon,

there is always someone to tell you

that you are wrong. There are always

difficulties arising which tempt you to

believe that your critics are right. To

map out a course of action and follow

it to an end requires courage.

– R.W. Emerson

I’ve always said that life was made for living & that living was made for the brave, but there is always that point in our lives where we stand at a crossroads between fight or flight. You stand there, staring at these two options, trying to put two and two together and praying to a god you weren’t sure you believed in five minutes ago, so that he would lead you to choose the correct path.

Most of the time, when faced with a seemingly life-altering decision, we tend to weigh things. Though being humans, we have evolved in our decision-making patterns: we are now making decisions as consumers, as Advertising-fed money devotees, as instant gratification whores, as egoistic sharks and we have seemingly lost our ability to act on instinct, instead we just measure. Measure the amount of money and glory. Measure the amount of praise and sex. Measure the stability and the safety. We have completely disregarded our instinct, the one thing in our system that connects us to create magic with the Universe, we have been weighed and measured and we have consistently chosen the path of safety.

Yes, I understand the allure of being safe. I understand the feeling of needing to know routine. I understand wanting to have a plan, an itinerary. I understand craving for security.

I understand it because I am in it. I am in a safe environment. I am consistently in a routine. I am making plans and itineraries everyday. I am in a secure job. Meaning to say, I have chosen the path of flight.

Flying away from every dream, every adventure, every single thing that makes the blood in my veins skip and feel excited about. This is wrong. This is not a life to be proud of.

So as I sit here, in this suffocating cubicle, breathing in circulated air and dirt, I look outside into the concrete jungle and think of the path I have chosen. I think about every responsibility I have. Every obligation I have to stay at this routine. Every reason I tell myself why I need to be in this box. Every day I think about this and every day I convince myself that this is a path I have to live with.

But my instinct, my gut, the holder of this magic – tells me that it’s not too late. That this path I’ve chosen to walk on, I can always choose to walk on the grass and run towards the long and winding road of the unknown.

I can feel my life is about to change as I look up towards the sky and see the blue skies and the birds flying out to where their instinct tells them to go.

This time, I’ll be braver and may you be braver as we leap into the magic of adventure. It’s never too late for anything.

The Beginning, Again.

 

Yesterday was perhaps the start of another beginning yet as with anything, it was also the end of several things.

 

I woke-up feeling as if the weight of the world was under my eyes. How my heart felt as if it was deteriorating and my soul was lost in a black hole. I know this feeling, it was the familiarity of being there – in a dark, empty room with these feelings enveloping my being. I wanted to crawl inside my sheets again and wait for this to all be over. I looked at everything around me – how my studio, how everything inside it: the paintings, the sketches, the photographs, the journals, have become so hard to look at.

 

The things I’ve cherished and spent so many hours creating were things I suddenly wanted to burn. I guess as humans, that is ultimately why we search for power, because we can create as easily as we destroy. I stood there, in the middle of everything and started to do just that – destroy for no apparent reason. It’s just looking at these things I’ve created, it brought me so much pain as they stood for memories and opportunities lost over the years.

 

I don’t regret destroying most of my creations, it only means I can start again.

 

This marks the start of me falling in-love with art again.

This marks the start of battling succumbing the allure of depression.

This marks the start of remembering why it’s important to trust in the Universe.

 

May light & great love find us all as we all go through the journey of life.