the winter wave of feels

"the winter wave", jacek yerka - my calendar that i'm also pretty proud of.

so what happens when you've been inside for like almost 5 days, reading stuff (we won't go into what exactly) and basically avoiding reality as much as possible?
it's a happy thing in a nutshell: it means there's a reality to avoid. and then:
you go out and buy wine and cheap acryllics. come back home and play music and start on the following masterpiece:

i mean this is just the start. i want to cover it all, and then do textures...oh i'd waited to get a moment reckless enough to start a project without worrying about how badly i draw/cut/do anything. the cutouts are from drafts of mine from writing school, back in 2008, a story i never wrote but i half-utilized in something else.  this wants to be sort of an altar. (credits to helene klodawsky and jessica moss , of course, for the title and the lightbox idea) and 

the thing is, i don't talk a lot about worrying, though i do worry, because...i guess, who in my situation wouldn't? but it's not something where friends or well-wishers can give me advice or anything. i am sort of getting advice from accredited bodies, so that's fine. things are fine. and i know people love me and are thinking of me and that's also fine. (i am really drunk/sentimental right now, but lucid enough. it's not something i don't want to say. i'm pushing myself to say it and the vibes are ok to say it).

i mean, picture a life in the mid-thirties, someone who realizes they've had enormous potential, mostly wasted so far on weird love attachments and choice of field/profession, and that reputation does stain people. and that by this time one is already set on a determined course. but maybe not:

sorry, couldn't help it.

lucky to be me, not jaime lannister. contrary to any appearances

i love my life. i do have moments when i regret things. (mostly small things, you'd be thrilled to hear. tonight i was wandering in the aisles of a dollarama, mortified over the suddenly remembered use of the word 'nipples' in a poem i wrote 11 years ago). and i am so scared. but i'm okay with being here and alone at this point and i think it's right and it makes perfect sense.
and i still want to do things and make people proud of me. the things i would do for love. i would make myself 'successful' for love. maybe.

things i recite aloud, on my own, drunk in my kitchen on cheap australian wine etc:
Invictus (by william ernest henley)

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul. 

picture with flash. bad picture, yes? still, it looks like the wave uncovers some unexpected gem.

i love you, guys.

i have a request: do you have moody winter songs for me? really appreciated.

c