It’s not art, it’s just me…

Surreal. Every action, every feeling, it’s all automatic. Like an echo; foreshadowing what’s to come. Still, a presense lingers in the air. Reminding me of what I had.

You know it’s there. Hidden under layers and layers of annoying habits and self-destructing behaviour. Playing hide and seek with you for its own amusement. Maybe it knows that if it were for you, you would have assumed it lost a long time ago. But she can see it, so it has to be there. Somewhere. And you need to find it before you vanish into the nothingness you’ve become.

Quién no necesita
un poco de cuidado…
Quién no necesita
sentirse mimado…
Una palabrita
puede hacer milagros…

I can’t even remember how to spell ‘photographer’.

It keeps whispering in my head and feasting upon my heart. And I can’t even pronounce its name.

You’ve hidden it so many times, disguised it, repressed it, that one day you finally realize you’ve lost all capacity to actually do it.