frills thrills

she never looked nice.
she looked like art.
and art wasn't supposed to look nice;
it was supposed to make you feel something.

"how do you stay sane?"

"who said i was sane?"

"oh my god. what if you wake up someday and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written. what if you were too strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like you did when you were a kid. it’s going to break your heart. don’t let it happen." 

and so i finally understood how you could feel so detached from the world, yet be at one with it. 

the truth is born in strange places.

joan of arc came back as a little girl in japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends. 

elvis was born again in a small village in sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.

michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.

jackson pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in russia.

hemgingway, to this day, writes dvd instruction manuals somewhere in china. he’s an old man on a factory line. you wouldn’t recognize him.

gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in new york. he never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor. 

and everyone, everywhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.