“Reading has always been my sweetest escape, but I write to convey that which I want to escape or what scares me to say, even if it’s something positive.”

Imagine the unknown of what the beings around you cover up and struggle with everyday.

If I could reverse time, I would spend more time looking into what ailed my loved ones – would have learned more about medical gaslighting.

Here you are, another heartache to guard under my wings as I wait wondering when it’ll be time for me to fly.

To be understood is to be on part of the path to inclusivity.

To be understood and accepted could change so many lives.

People struggle with words that spill and overwhelm you because they themselves are sinking.

I still have a scar from the time someone said, ‘Sometimes love isn’t enough.’

I don’t think anyone really gets my attachment to the little things. They call it insignificant and say that it is what it is. I think it all adds up to what we stand for. The little things add up to something meaningful and so does the complacency.

I bear the fruits of your memory in the expression of my art for that is what you gave to the world.

Body and mind aren’t separated. And so all these things I write, they are felt in the aches of my heart.

I grew up learning history about communities that would support their people (the idea that it takes a village), but all I see are so many people left on their own.

When the silence fades and now sounds begin to bloom, I will grow to feel calm again. Healthily this time.

My words decay. I grow as they fray, unbecoming in the passage of time.

I overwhelmingly write from sadness – in songs, in prose, in verse.

I search for comedy scripts / I watch happy shows / In hopes that laughter will be the remedy I end my day with.

I hide myself in the galaxies of my creations – unsure of who I am beyond that.

We possess our body by chance and we are already pleased with it. If our physical bodies went through ten thousand transformations without end, how incomparable would this joy be! Therefore the sage roams freely in the realm in which nothing can escape, but all endures.

The human face is as strange to me as a countenance, which, the more one looks at it, the more it closes itself off and escapes by the steps of unknown stairways.

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape.

Yet the order of the acts is planned And the end of the way inescapable. I am alone; all drowns in the Pharisees’ hypocrisy.

Cosmic reveries separate us from project reveries. They situate us in a world and not in a society. The cosmic reverie possesses a sort of stability or tranquility. It helps us escape time. It is a state.

All serious art is being destroyed by commerce. Most people don’t want art to be disturbing. They want it to be escapist. I don’t think art should be escapist. That’s a waste of time.

Whatever has befallen you was not meant to escape you, and whatever has escaped you was not meant to befall you.

All the best stories in the world are but one story in reality – the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape.