‘A stream of thought’.
More than ever, I'm constantly asking myself the same question: Where do I fit in the categories of thought and feeling? How much weight does this thought and feeling of existing between you and yourself hold? What is it measured by the soul, the body, or the psyche?
Are these the only three factors that contribute to having a self, this unknown word that I’m always searching for, the "I"? As a creative person, I feel an obligation to know thyself. I believe it is an artist's duty to explore the deepest parts of themselves the darkest shades of shadow and the lightest shades of light. This means accepting yourself fully and completely, and understanding that this is a difficult journey. It’s like living with intense hyper-saturation, constantly battling your own self-deprecating, egotistical self-loathing. I am a spiral of millions of moments of the Now.
To create is not only to tell or show something from yourself. This personal ritual is so strong within me that I call it a divine intervention; it’s a feeling of euphoria and ecstasy that your body just cannot resist. As I confront many images of myself, I ask the question: Why? Why do I need to constantly refine, reinvent, and remake myself? It feels like a drug that I cannot stop wanting or needing, and I derive a perverse satisfaction from it. I am like a sponge that you can throw the whole ocean into, and it is still not full. I have always thought that things that are not complete touch perfection. I can only describe this feeling through someone else's words on perfection, from a book I read that is a stream of consciousness. The book is called Aqua Viva by Clarice Lispector, an author who helped me find meaning in madness.
“What is a mirror? It is an invented material that is natural. Whoever looks at a mirror, whoever manages to see it without seeing themselves, whoever understands that its depth consists of being empty whoever walks inside its transparent space without leaving the trace of their own image upon it has understood the mystery of things.
For that to happen, one must surprise it when it is alone, when it’s hanging in an empty room, without forgetting that the finest needle before it can transform the simplest image of a needle. So sensitive is the mirror and its quality of the lightest reflection. Only the image, not the body. The body of the thing, its form, does not matter; no form manages to circumscribe and alter it. A tiny piece of mirror is always the whole mirror; removing it from its frame or the line of its edges, it grows like spilling water.”
With her words, I feel a sense of completeness, a lack of need for separation. Every piece of me is a complete piece a reflection within me that I always find empty.
