
8.24.17
I just feel like somewhere I have to get it out. And it takes a while . . . to shoot, edit, trim, color, light . . . and at the end of it all . . . it still doesn’t truly reflect or give true life to what it was that inspired the creation. It’s just like, everything is perfect and I’m still hurting. The game is literally in check mate, but I can’t believe I did it. I can’t even breathe most days, I’m usually caught in a haze. I’m usually staring out and minutes evade, and I get caught up in older days — stuck, and they just replay and replay and replay. Makes me think I’m crazy, and these new people don’t even know me — is what blows me . . . But they watch every day. Not even knowing how crazy its been, how low I’ve been, and so close to him . . . its like oh yea that nigga is real. You somehow forgot. In the midst of concert smoke, and smoke in general, mixed with more smoke, and a few strokes, that made you choke, especially when it woke up a little one, only to find out you were to broke to even bring to life your reality. Double meaning. Living continuously in double meaning. What is it to live a double life? I know, and its crazy, because its only eight twenty-four seventeen — but I . . . just feel like my body can’t keep up with my mind anymore. And a beautiful painting, is taking a little bit longer than my ability to contain.
And then I’m muzzled again. It’s horrorville. Living sacrifices.
It’s eight twenty-four, seventeen.
