phly.

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My entire life I’ve betrayed my power, abandoning myself; interpreting my life through words spewed from every tongue, except the one with a force-fed allegiance to me by birth right and not by profit. The one stuck in my mouth. This alignment triumphs radiantly, until your talents go from being blessings on your beneficiaries, to all of a Sunday growing wings, seemingly threatening your “friends” careers, their place, their charm and their age.

Wake the fuck up!! Time is Lucifer’s servant. Here is a suggestion; maybe when what once consummated you has become grief, a vessel of self-loathing, betrayals, grins, Oprah hugs, lies, gossip subject matter, bulimic friendships, bitterness, deleted pictures, UGLY- it’s time to turn over the vinyl for a fresh sound. Unless, of course, walking around with a knife sticking out of your back has been declared the new haute couture. Nothing is ever, ever, as it seems.

The trap commences from a lucid need for acceptance, it is poison in a box of chocolates. This new crack, this artificial affirmation is addictive, the main ingredient in baking the “attention seeker”. But before you cut wood for crucifixion, open your eyes and take a closer look, this is nothing but fruition off a scarcity of hugs inside that snowy building you were told to call home in your juvenescence.

This has been my story. I’ve perversely waited for my Prince Charming to sweep me away to my ego, where we could spend summer afternoons with him continuously reminding me how I’m the undeniable beauty mark of the rapture. I waited until the clocks lost limbs. Then, one day, I removed both eye patches and appreciated that I’ve had the magic of splitting oceans in my hand the whole time.

The indicative deviation being that the portrait was less clouded than the daydream. And even though I acknowledge how annoying I am, how bullshit, fragile, deficient and egotistical I am, I’ve granted myself, every now and then, the pleasure of marvelling at the work of my hands, and professing my intelligence and creativity out loud, hollering “GODDAMNIT I SLAY”.

x.

TANLUME

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Photography: Giancarlo Calaméo LaGuerta

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