± The Journey ||| Towards ||| Creative ||| Export ±

Movement is a trajectory calculating possible time allowance to be late. As no one really wishes to leave the premises of blissful comfort of home. Home is something that has been deliberately debated in "Tetris" themes. The notion of attachment is more of a transference forwarded to clippings of grass patches and trees growing in the distance covered in snow. Where from an old bedroom window one could see somewhat distant idea of freedom. We do not change. Not really. We accumulate pain and experience mixed with rare but memorable glitches of joy. That then, with brave faces and determined wrist action we transform into shape and sound, hoping to detach shame of the passing hours. Years. Clothing scattered from one postcode to another. Paintings and framed lovers with leftovers they conjured inside my veins. Their encoded messages became graveyards filled with flyers, tour dates, shared sheets and bleeding texts. In those moments of change that we imagine will transcend us. We meet the side of self we all are running from. We had it all. We have it all. We know how it’s done. We salute face that meets us in the mirror. One more day. One more step. One more pay check. It will all be worth it.

In passing. Always in passing. In distance where the haunting decay of buildings and memories lay. In the texts never send and pages never printed. Finding similarities with 10 years ago. How can one string of faith carry so many coincidences. Should have. Could have.

From afar. But had too. Chose to. Come closer. Loosing those dear to me. Memories shared. Easier to bury love not granted. This is not sadness that touches pages but glory of silver and coral ashes. Twined together crow feathers and rough, manila rope. Cruel reminder of times given. Making mistakes is easy, observing consequences is not that hard to. They flash before you within seconds while you update your system. Shivers down the spine. Face. Nothing is forgotten. With each key strike the line of metal string tightens. Feel parts of me detach. In variables. Have been more. In words of 'Daughter' she is a suffocate|or. How interesting the paradigm of shifting air.

Watching grammar as a collection of words inside the passages of imagined sensations and languages. All that needs to be said is somehow attached to empty white spaced windows and multitude of tab options. Looking at the text in few different angles makes all very clear.

//Authors note: The story of creative process is commonly the same. All great work we enjoy comes from immense suffering, loneliness, dread and addiction. And we relate to it because on different levels we all suffer. We combine our experience of levitating fear and panic, that then gets hidden under projected expression of calmness. And while we all must exude a calm interface, it gets torn and shredded in the oblivion of creative circles that move towards hell of self. 

Worlds colliding. It is a privilege to see a warrior without their armor gifted rarely to chosen few. You are perfect. Inside my mind. Where within passage of your own, you keep shifting. Rewriting pages. Somewhat violently. Fountain pens tears through. Pressure. You start over, and over and over again. Notebook after notebook. Softcore to hardcore. Destroying 4 pages at a time. Blessed in loops. Books keep the covers hard and words painted, time runs out in sand and glass. I shall return to this. Somehow. One day. It will all make perfect sense in reverse.

Banshees and digitized serpents. Melt the sward. Quantum. Lighter. Spin self in. Every pill has a number and a disgusting color match of pink to white. I encapsulate self in its divine vision. While wearing stripes that change to silk dresses for pay. We are all prostitutes spinning in our own virtual boxes assigned by day time | night time ratings. When hotel rooms and tech riders join the game of presentation. I delay email responses. No stage fright. Come across clean. Border patrol and itineraries. You should work on sound and video overlays. Penetrating voice of self doubt. Delay pedal is your best friend darling. Don't forget to press save. Rooted into main channels.

||| B R U T | U S |||

• byyruvribyhblqyhbjhblyyegrzebheezan •

Sometimes. It happens, on a molecular level. Loss. Or. Something in between. PAUSE. There is so much nicotine in me. Air between missing parts. Bit weird. Bit dull. Bit tempered. Too many needles pierced skin in past-thence ideology. I miss. Gaps. Chemicals provide sharpness and lightheaded flashbacks. Panic attacks. Letting go. Repetitive thoughts. This is just a road block. Would have taken it back. It vibrates in just the right frequency. Don’t go. When touching face lilies die from water shortage. Can do it again. Picking self up. Force-feeding flesh. All is going to be ok. Watching pitch shift from green to red.

Branches stood still, the air stooped. Hovering over the dead of the city. Sky was purple. Silence was penetrated by piano keys. Hunger grew in a distance. Body was exhausted. Mind keeps pushing pictures of faces unseen. Touching parable of self navigation. Reciting words. Staid and left behind. So many things are left in the ether. Wanderers inside boxes. One dim circular light switch. Nothing is lost. We are in this together. Hating today while rejecting tomorrow. Focusing on one day. Day is as exaggeration trapped into 86400 seconds. That in approximation of 10 gr of tobacco, 1500 ml of caffeine. In human form. While waiting to the last minute for frocks and stockings to be pulled up. This is why we do not participate in today between tomorrow bending on yesterday.

Warriors without skin. That is how I see us. Missing outer layers we mold our-self with source material made out of wax and concrete. Upgraded to a rubber version on which we wear latex for the chosen one. Medicate on command then lay in bed chain-smoking, wondering how the outer layers fits into the other to protect self. My arms stretch across the mattress grasping at smoke and burring face in pillows.

Be strong the outer layer voice projects in echos. We project reels of film through my eyes back unto walls and computer screens. Sound software and blank pages that get filled with paragraphs of someones care hidden under indifference.
It’s only at night and in moment of pure untouched digitalized vibrations of connectivity when the movie reels shine back inside. You inspire me. The reader. A common ground seeker in the realm of wax structure. My outer shell keeps loosing its shape. I grab onto ribs and sunken-in flesh. The way of the artist. The fight of the decade inside the realm of head-space that understands no time. No physical or mathematical expression of existing. If there would be an advice, it would be not to loose one another. It will not repeat itself. The accident of non accidental exhilaration towards body and text.

//Authors note: When curtain falls and viewer stops to greet the reader, I begin to breathe again. Suddenly. Suspended inside a box where I knew. We shall meet again.
//Your note: • | • 

Good Night and god Bless,
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich


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