we used to fuck to the cure-heres some pictures of you
this gallery within my mind. i wish i could produce prints from these negatives. oh so amazingly wonderful. if i could just. hold them in my hands. just so I know that i wasnt crazy. that my mind wasnt making it up. i need to hang them all around my house. from door to window. with different coloured clips. gently blowing from the ceiling fan in my room. you know colour is just a pollutent. it makes us see things that are not real. illusions of colour. but i just know this was real. i was really there. all these images whiz by like a picture book you flip. the way my eyes captured the light and the speed of my blink. i wish i could put them in frames and hang them from the walls of my mind. i dont really like to think i have walls within my mind. a stop. a boundry. and the black and whites from all the times i was too fucked up. am i really not an addict and really im finding an altered means to see clearly. the black and whites from the shoot i had at the bottom of the stairwell alone. The light seemed to have hit my face in such a way. it only showed a white spot. white light. created when all the colours in the light spectrum come together as one. what does that say for me? how much film have i wasted. and is it really all a waste? but how many of them memories are great? what is the ratio of pictures that turn out to pictures that dont turn out? do you think these two catigorized ratios would be simular. i dont know. im not gunna use any of my time to find out. i think it would be rediculous. i wish i could open this gallery up to the public viewing. would I finally be considered an artist? would I even be considered? these are original prints here. the way my eyes have captured you. in such a way that only someone captured by you would be able to. Everything was just perfect, and my eyes epitomized you. The epitomy of you. I want to hold that in my hands. Tuck it beside my bed, put it under my pillow, in my diary, safely in my wallet.
just deep inside my head.
Ive spent hours alone in this blackroom. alone i go through these albums one by one page by page picture by picture negative by negative.
god. you know i dont even know how to operate a camera. ill never be considered ill never be an artist. ill never be. i can never prove what i saw was real. and i can never prove what was real was what i remember. i guess maybe i should think i was living a lie. an illusion of colour. that all those bright rainbows were actual false happinesses i was running to, living in living for.
all brought on by you. i fucking hate you.
i did take some great fucking pictures here man, but for the most part my uneducated guessing at working this camera and lighting sure shows. thanks but we retired this career 7 months ago. and have no plans in opening this gallery up anytime soon.
this gallery within my mind. i wish i could produce prints from these negatives. oh so amazingly wonderful. if i could just. hold them in my hands. just so I know that i wasnt crazy. that my mind wasnt making it up. i need to hang them all around my house. from door to window. with different coloured clips. gently blowing from the ceiling fan in my room. you know colour is just a pollutent. it makes us see things that are not real. illusions of colour. but i just know this was real. i was really there. all these images whiz by like a picture book you flip. the way my eyes captured the light and the speed of my blink. i wish i could put them in frames and hang them from the walls of my mind. i dont really like to think i have walls within my mind. a stop. a boundry. and the black and whites from all the times i was too fucked up. am i really not an addict and really im finding an altered means to see clearly. the black and whites from the shoot i had at the bottom of the stairwell alone. The light seemed to have hit my face in such a way. it only showed a white spot. white light. created when all the colours in the light spectrum come together as one. what does that say for me? how much film have i wasted. and is it really all a waste? but how many of them memories are great? what is the ratio of pictures that turn out to pictures that dont turn out? do you think these two catigorized ratios would be simular. i dont know. im not gunna use any of my time to find out. i think it would be rediculous. i wish i could open this gallery up to the public viewing. would I finally be considered an artist? would I even be considered? these are original prints here. the way my eyes have captured you. in such a way that only someone captured by you would be able to. Everything was just perfect, and my eyes epitomized you. The epitomy of you. I want to hold that in my hands. Tuck it beside my bed, put it under my pillow, in my diary, safely in my wallet.
just deep inside my head.
Ive spent hours alone in this blackroom. alone i go through these albums one by one page by page picture by picture negative by negative.
god. you know i dont even know how to operate a camera. ill never be considered ill never be an artist. ill never be. i can never prove what i saw was real. and i can never prove what was real was what i remember. i guess maybe i should think i was living a lie. an illusion of colour. that all those bright rainbows were actual false happinesses i was running to, living in living for.
all brought on by you. i fucking hate you.
i did take some great fucking pictures here man, but for the most part my uneducated guessing at working this camera and lighting sure shows. thanks but we retired this career 7 months ago. and have no plans in opening this gallery up anytime soon.
xo