7-11

Craving the drop-off point. My body is rejecting itself. I wish it wouldn’t bother me when it wasn’t needed. Awake I’m drained of action. All I’m left with is potential. Fucking potential. What good has that ever done for anyone? It’s just another avenue to guilt and self-loathing. I wish I had no potential so I could only expand. But all I do is diminish. Ideas go first; then the compulsion to do anything about them. They go from liquid to gas to nothing; empty storage space. They slip away like a dream. A dream that you swore you would remember but the importance of which fades away with the light of a new day. Days filled with trivia. The normality the sun brings. In the dark the potential is infinite – there might be ghouls in your corridor, thieves outside your window, and pined-for lovers in your bedroom.

Stimulus may be the enemy of imagination. People too. Most of them are just paint stripper. The night brings a blank black canvas. A surface on which all colours added must be your own.

A testing ground for thoughts. The vitality of a misused mind is revealed by those which do not survive. Beautiful revelations witnessed by one but familiar to none.

Why must these ideas evade capture at all cost?

7-11

henrydark

Lismore, Australia

  • Artist
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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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