Occasionally, yes. Especially if something needs venting. I don’t use names, perhaps that’d be a step far.
Tonight I read your letters over, when I was all alone.
They seemed changed, perhaps in the ways I’ve grown.
You are to me a mixture,
you hold both cure and disease.
Although you spell me encouragement
I feel it’s not with ease.
You are a fickle thing, controlled by whim and wishes.
I think it’s time’s come at last, to fold over
I’m just waiting on the sun to rise
someone’s underneath my bed
the wind is knocking at my window.
it is plain to see, oh there’s a monster in my closet.
I took a gamble and looked at a picture of you.
I stared and stared, furious heat in my eyes.
I recognise nothing.
Goodbyes are long over-due.
Now it doesn’t even matter if you want to spit in my face.
There is only this molten road.
You think you know me now?
Wait until the stars come out.
Well, I made you, so now I’ll take you back.
It’s too late now
The sun sleeps in clouds of fire.
That’s all and that’s right.
I’ll just hide my face.
If there’s something I should know,
I seek the signs where there is no shade
under the molten sky
let the day’s collide
I still have my secret voice.
Two unsuccessful interviews.
These two hurt more than the dozens before, because I actually thought it was going to change.
June. July. August. September. October…
Still emptiness in my gut, strange after-taste of hope on my tongue. I say nothing to anyone. I just listen to the echoes around the house for about half an hour.
But you live and learn. Gotta keep going. It wasn’t meant to be. All of that stuff. Maybe I didn’t want it enough. I feel I’ve got to get really determined. I’ve got to build myself a place I can comfortably fall-back upon every time i get a knock-back, so that it doesn’t hurt that much. A cushion. A spring board. A secret ambition. A un-altering fact that if it’s that important, I’ll make it happen. No excuses. No reason not to go forward.
Deep breath. A little prayer for continuing courage.
Leaving solitude of my bedroom to tell my mother.
I read your wishes over, but now they don’t seem sincere.
Why do I assume, when there’s no evidence here?
I’m not sure these changes in your behaviour are a good sign.
Does this sudden interest indicate that you’ve actually grown enough to have a look back at the story?
I wish I could have filmed it all…my pain, how could I let you know…? I was fooled. Every inch of me, all I wanted, so ready for us. I was teased, but so the story moved, and I got old.
Are you embarrassed so?
I was allowed by your lows.
But I take my own. You don’t know. My soft-blooded flow.
So many tore at us.
You are reformed, I won’t let it reform us. I’m running home.
Silence is my gain.
Who would love you? who could try?
The story is all over you. Yet you can’t find the clue.
Don’t bother me. Go find someone else to string along.
Introducing the insanely talented German artist, Simon Schubert. Famous for his elaborate paper folding, there’s no question about his knowledge of perspective and vanishing point. But perhaps what’s most impressive is the delicacy and care evident in each of his works.