s.flyrin

The ideas that I have

The books that live in my mind and that are alive in my heart and keeping it beating

My three stories. And then after them I’ll write more and more and more

But I can’t even write one.

I can’t even begin it.

I don’t know why.

It must be for the same reason that I’m unable to cry. Tears gathering in my eyes without being able to fall.

These days I find myself in such a state, over and over again.

I’ve cried without sound for other people’s stories and I’ve cried so, so quietly for songs. But why I wonder, can’t I cry for me? For my self and my stories

It makes me unbearably sad

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I keep pacing around the room.

I don’t know what to do with myself.

I feel like I’ve escaped from some kind of control. Some kind of false reality that everyone around me is still a part of.

It’s strange, it feels weird to see the people in my life move as if they’re programmed machines. I’ve felt this way for quite some time but when you tell a computer that its coding is wrong, it doesn’t understand you, does it? It can’t.

Machines can’t think. They’re controlled.

Machines aren’t creative. Their output is tightly defined and it’s limited. Finite.

At times I’m the only breathing human in a family made of machinery. They tell everyone “You need a Man—“ and that man is God.

But soon every man becomes God.

They practice their faith by upholding a system, worshiping a God that nurtures abuse and violence, and keeps it safe.

Glory to him, to them that have the power. Machines don’t question power. You can’t ask questions when you don’t even think.

Forgiveness and prayer keep the machine running. A machine is easy to control as long as it doesn’t fight back. Most are programmed not to and aren’t rewired.

It’s lonely. Being human in a world of machinery.

.

my family, my friends, this world… it is not only on my own behalf that i feel rage, but for anyone else that has also been wronged or wounded.

the people around me have hurt me, but i still sleep each night comforted by the wish that we’ll all be alright, everything will be. better than alright, for all of us.

to anyone who’s barely hanging on too, my wishes are with you

( TW: references to trauma, abuse, and depression + unhealthy coping mechanisms)

there’s a lot i’ve had and a lot i’ve been denied in this world. a warm bed and delicious food waiting for me every day is no laughing matter. that economic stability and any additional luxuries, that’s a dream. one that i’ve always been lucky to live. despite the privilege, comfort hasn’t been an easy thing. my body is not my own. and neither is my mind.

i’ve always been something to take. no autonomy, not then and not now. what is childhood, if not being at the mercy of those bigger and stronger than you? a luck of the draw, will there be mercy granted or not… my body wasn’t my own, and sometimes i forget it is now. my mind is somewhere in the middle, part of it here and the other lost in trauma and war. a war that wasn’t a war because how can a child defend itself without a voice or being accepted to have one.

i’ve spent my whole life at the mercy of people bigger and stronger and greedy. Real greedy. but i thought that art was different. that and my voice are all i own. but i see these platforms and spaces being taken and turned over to generative ai and i. i feel like a grown kid, an adult child who’s autonomy is being taken and used without a say. if my. No, My art is part of me it is me and now even my writing and painting and drawing and sketching and contemplating feels compromised.

no authority over my body no clarity no stability with my mind and no freedom in my art. when do i get to the stage where i’m fully grown and have control without having to beg for it and rage for it and feel terribly violent because of it.

if you’ve made it this far i don’t want you to think or believe that this is a doomsday post. i’ve been through a lot of trauma and i know others have too. i know that war inside and out is nothing new. i know that it’s not only my house that is burning, not only my body and my mind, but the whole world too. but i’m still writing and still breathing and if you’re reading this then you are too.

i’m a little high and a little tipsy and i hate being alive. but i can’t hate humanity and i don’t even want to try. if we’re a mosaic of every person we’ve met then my art is an accumulation of every artist and creator and person and everything that’s ever made me feel. pieces of art that have touched me and have made me feel like i’m living, not only being alive.

my whole life i’ve been surviving because of people who have taken and taken and taken and taken what they’ve wanted from me. taken and never considered my own autonomy or boundaries or sanity. but with every work of art i see i’m given and given and given and given life.

seeing art meeting art knowing that art is alive and still breathing gives me life .

So maybe the world is burning too, maybe it kills me and hurts me to be alive, but I’m not just surviving. I’m living good