All conquistadors

It was a heavy weekend. Mulling over with my friend last night it was reinforced that feelings exist to be felt and sometimes we have to indulge in them, just for a little while, and cry and scream and throw up and swear. Charles Bukowski knows whats up:

I have a funny feeling that even in that state of indulgence I would still drag myself over the broken glass of an impossible head to go to uni, or to do work, or to go for a run, ya know. I have a ferocity in me that made five different people tilt their heads to one side over the past week and tell me that I work too much, think too much, worry too much. It's all true, but I feel the happiest when I'm exhausted, joyous neck-deep in ProTools and pianos and ecstatic sewing wool into old sheets making monster installations 'til early hours. It's not just for nothing. 


I see so many beautiful things in this world, in this small life that I'm living here. I owe it to the universe to be creative, active, to celebrate everything good and hopeful and positive that exists even in so much strife - despite so much strife. I am so lucky that I am in a situation where I have a brain, a heart, family and friends and a body that can run and jump and lift things and a heater duct to sit on on cold mornings. 


Everything I do is filtered through sadness but sweetened with hope. Because after all...without hope, I don't really know what we'd all be doing, still here. 


A little tangental but Frida Kahlo also knows what's up: 

“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it's true I'm here, and I'm just as strange as you.”