Story of an Artist

November 4, 2011
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This is my story. I could talk about my blue jeans that wrap around my legs snugly, but not because they are tight jeans, but because I am overweight. I could explain the sweaters I don, gray or dark blue or light green. Or that I love to draw. But that doesn’t explain ME. That talks about my physical person. My inner person is completely different.

My mind is a strange and sometimes frightening place. Scratching records and hard beats ricochet in my skull. Evil, curved grins filled with sharp teeth lurk in the recesses of my shadows. Mayhem. Change the tune. Faster beat. Dundunduauauuaudundun. Small voices. Yet brighter images also dance around in a fast techno song. Faster and faster. Colors whirl around in circles as my persona Emo Angelfox breaks the floor. My mind is a happier place.

Am I mad? Perhaps. All artists have to be. Claro. If you aren’t then where is your creativity?

Your heart beats faster. Pupils dilate. Leg bounces in your seat. Life shifts.
Next page.

How is a narrative written? Must it be a story? No. I do not believe that. A narrative is yourself. So I write about me. But who is “myself”? Is it Emo? The little fox with angel wings, dual tails, and drag marks--running down her face like black anthros running down a white mountain from an avalanche-- down her eyes? Or is it the girl on the outside? The shell of me? The girl with short hair? Sweaters and jeans? Calm and quiet? No. It’s both.
Time to dance.
A biography is never correct. So I will write this page. Is my life interesting enough to even mention? Thanks for participating. Imagine for a second what it would be like if everything you ever saw on movies was life? I would have a power that no one else would have? But wouldn’t everyone else as well? Where is the fun in that? It’s murder. Destruction of your mind. Simplicity and common are not what I strive for. I want to stand out. Want? Need? Not the same. It’s murder. Was it worth it?

Physical pain is bearable. How is it that I cannot take internal pains? It shows my calm and tranquil nature on the outside. But how weak I am. On the inside. Like an egg. I break easily. I am a sticky mess of yellow surrounded in my safe cocoon of sheltered bliss. The outside is battered like copper. Turned green I am no wet-around-the-ears milksop child pup. I am roughened by years of stress, turmoil, and pain.
Keep reading. It gets better.

I fell into a burning ring of fire with no way out but to jump. It only hurts a little and then it’s over. But fear keeps me in, as the flames lick over me. Change = chance. Who knows? Maybe I jump out of the fire into deep water and drown? I’d rather burn.
Went down, down, down. And the flames were higher.

Into the castle we go. Twisted spires loom over us. Dark, mildewed walls covered in moss and ancient oak doors beckon with ivy hands. Do we enter? We must, for the exit has been covered in lightening. So we enter. What’s on the other side? Oh look! It’s candy mountain! Ice cream snow capped mountains and lollipop trees and root beer streams that trickle and foam and spray across pop rock river rocks pop pop river rock. Pop pop river rock. No. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows. But at least it covers the “happy” theme right? Until you drown in the rainbow trees and choke on leaves. I’m breaking boundaries.
Dance dance pop rock pop river rock.

I’m about to lose myself in the flow, music, it goes faster than a star shooting through the sky. Faster than light and brighter than the nuclear sun, at least on the inside. I talk about my inside, not my outside, but just believe me when I say this is who I am! I’ve been torn down by a boy, misdirected by my friends, and bottled up inside and NOW I’m ABOUT TO EXPLODE! Why do we hate, why do we love, it all ends up the same, no one has a clue about the rules of this game. They think we can get out but it’s never true, believe me; this narrative is about me and you.
I hate it I hate it!

Don’t you love how idiotic the world is at times? You fight for those good grades, you fight for attention, you FIGHT for LOVE! Fighting! All the time! Bloodshed, crushed bones, bleaching skulls grin blankly at killers whom crave attention just as you and I! The only difference is how we go about it. I slash my words, sarcasm oozing from my mouth like foam from a witch’s brew, frothing and spilling maliciously. Glaring hate and mistrust towards girls makes friendship an impossibility! Why must they stare with tattooed eyes, their faces heavy with their fakeness. Nails perfect, skimpy clothes, and haughty tones! I hate them!
Freeze. At ease.

I’m stark raving mad. I cackle as I pound on these keys like a keyboardist. Tapping my feet. Exaggerate the movements. Add techno and electronic. Heck, look up “Stark Raving Mad” by Negaren. There is a song that goes perfectly.
Slow it down.
My mind is slowing down. Or will it run like little eggs? Reap your revenge. Cause havoc. Watch as my eggs roll down the hill. White and crisp as a bleached bone they tumble. One is blind. Watch out be safe.
Hahahah!
Is this writing with my head? I think so. Writing with my heart would mean I would watch would I say.
Silence.
Life has no background noise. It’s quiet. We are not people that come out of our shells. We hide away. But I do not want to blend in. I want to be unique. But that is easier said than done. Yes. Now listen to my song.
We’re on a boat.
I get sea-sick. I rock back and forth. Lake water is eerily black and green like a slimy slithery eel. Water deep as a mountain. I can’t swim. Why should I? My idiot siblings leap in. Water closes over them. Sweat and chills cover me in terror. My eyes go blank. Water. Everywhere. I throw up. Why? It expels some deep welling anxiety. Does it work? No. I pass out. And wake up on land.
Safety in a mother’s arms. No.
I seem deeply misunderstood. Perhaps that is for the best. Play the piano song. Sweet and soft. And think back on fond memories. I’ll soar on my broken wings. Broken? Yes. They carry me far. Stained black I am no evil angel. I am simply a product of society. But with my 14 mile wingspan I’ll soar above the hate. I have been beaten down by mistrust, but I’ll soar again. Like a baby bird, I gently flap my broken wings. Let the tears flow freely. Yes. I’ll make it.
And yeah. I’ll fall too. But that happens.
Copyright? I’ve had my problems with you. Drawing is a tough act, and you get caught in the middle, twisting and turning and writhing like an eel to escape, but hold tight. Caught in the spotlight. Amidst the hype. Laws can’t help you. You’ll never escape. I know this. One day I will know this pain. Of heartbreak. Of pain. Pain. 14 miles. Only 14 miles.
Boom dubi doo.
Pain. Everyone feels it. And they think they can change it. How foolish.
Change.
Run faster. Run run run. Try to escape them. They’re coming for you and me.
Watch out be safe .
So we’ll run from the madness, run from the society, run from disrespect.
Goes boom dubi doo.
And fall into a hole, a pit, a never-ending-ring-of-dark. Run run.
Is this an experience?
A metaphor. This is what this is. An experience I can talk about only in this way. Because I can’t explain how I work. My life is mine. Thanks for participating.
And apple pie for all.







The songs I incorporated into the paper. (In case I get in trouble for not “referencing them”?)


“Eggs” Mayhem

“Banned Forever” Renard

“Stark Raving Mad” Negaren

“14 Mile Wingspan” Kitsune2

“It’s Murder” Mayhem

“Gangsta Sexy” Hollywood Undead





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