charcoal, chalk and red pastel.
I still have the original.
There is only truth here.
This piece, these writings… hold more of me than i can encompass in my minds’ eyes sweep and slip.
The written boils up in history in the days before I stopped drinking (not had a single sweet forgiving drop on my tongue since ‘98.)
It was hard for me to post this.
Oh yeah ah huh right now for fuck’s sake. I must say this I have to spit it out though I don’t know that I really want to see it all laid open like a finger on a slide.
I was committed first time in – voluntarily no I sure didn’t want to go there. I asked the psychiatrist filling in forms if she wanted to have sex with me and took off my shirt and lay on her desk and told her secret things about the stars. I couldn’t accept it because I believed that I was smarter than the people who committed me, and I still fucking do. I did put blades in my arms and I did want to die far more than I wanted to live I did cut In school when I was twelve years old I sat in class and cut my fingers with a pocket knife. “Paul, what are you doing?”
“Is this some kind of fucking trick question?”
These things are real, they exist in my messed up and inaccurate memory but they ARE still there.
And for a moment a singular pervasive short-lived killing moment memory floods every sensation that I have. Twitch lurches across my face like a wire hook. Brilliant so bright but hard to see. I remember I do some weird party no idea how I got there kissing and groping some old woman while huge old men did lines and watched me with ugly wasted eyes. Running thru the forest afterwards blood streaming down my face didn’t know where I was how I got there it was the middle of fucking nowhere and it sure felt like the end. Beaten to a pulp but wild with energy and painting my face with fingers full of blood I felt like I had slid into a Bosch painting.
I started drinking one afternoon was sure I didn’t go out or see anyone but woke up in a pair of dirty women’s underwear.
“Why do you hate us all Paul? Why do you do this?”
“I don’t hate anyone. I have never hated anyone. I am just too selfish to die."
This text is a an excerpt-y bit from
History of madness
and continues there, if you wish to look and learn and feel and wish and wish.
(this is just a link to another redbubble page.)