For years I have battled internally between what I know I am, a writer (and one primarily of gut and intuition), and my desire to be accepted. Or perhaps it is my secret fear of those whom I know discovering my true nature. I have become so accustomed to the mask of goodness that I wear that it has grown into my skin, seeking to be a part of me organically and not what it is: a parasitic and unnatural growth.
There are parts of me, parts so intrinsic that their being hidden wounds me, parts that are dark and sensual enough that they do not belong in the life I have so carefully crafted. I have known for many years that being a "good girl" was what I was expected to be. My shy and introspective nature and appearance does little to dissuade this image of goodness. It must be told, as it is such a burden, being a "good girl" is wearisome and disingenuous. I am not good in any way shape or form. I am hateful, loud, irrational, lustful, sensuous, impetuous, greedy, and corrupt. I have done a great many wrong and shocking things, and yet when people engage me the find me sweet, cute, and happy...how detestable!
If I was a color I would be as smooth and black and twisted as the darkest, starless night.
Feeling the beast within me claw and scratch to be let out and time after time be pacified, beaten down, and denied, I am tired. I have fought this because I believed that I could be something else, something other than a writer, something other than the soul tortured by unrequited love, unquenchable desire, irrepressible depression, sublime epiphany, and crippling doubt. But to deny falling into the sticky pleasure of words, being buoyed upon their spreading sweetness as my emotions and lusts are suspended and stroked within their viscosity is to deny the very soul within me. And I simply cannot (and am no longer willing to) turn my back on this wild artist inside.
If my art is shocking and appalling then I will know that it is true, that it is art and I will be satisfied.
There are parts of me, parts so intrinsic that their being hidden wounds me, parts that are dark and sensual enough that they do not belong in the life I have so carefully crafted. I have known for many years that being a "good girl" was what I was expected to be. My shy and introspective nature and appearance does little to dissuade this image of goodness. It must be told, as it is such a burden, being a "good girl" is wearisome and disingenuous. I am not good in any way shape or form. I am hateful, loud, irrational, lustful, sensuous, impetuous, greedy, and corrupt. I have done a great many wrong and shocking things, and yet when people engage me the find me sweet, cute, and happy...how detestable!
If I was a color I would be as smooth and black and twisted as the darkest, starless night.
Feeling the beast within me claw and scratch to be let out and time after time be pacified, beaten down, and denied, I am tired. I have fought this because I believed that I could be something else, something other than a writer, something other than the soul tortured by unrequited love, unquenchable desire, irrepressible depression, sublime epiphany, and crippling doubt. But to deny falling into the sticky pleasure of words, being buoyed upon their spreading sweetness as my emotions and lusts are suspended and stroked within their viscosity is to deny the very soul within me. And I simply cannot (and am no longer willing to) turn my back on this wild artist inside.
If my art is shocking and appalling then I will know that it is true, that it is art and I will be satisfied.
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