Tuesday, October 4, 2016 Y 9:06 PM
I don't really know how or why it began. I don't know why I have this thing only I feel. I don't know where it begins, where it ends, or how complexly rooted and sewn together to my being this has become.
I don't feel like I've ever been given a chance to have a minute to address it. I don't know why it petrifies me like a tree with innards.
I can see the eye hole cuts. My vision feels intrinsic. I feel like there are many of me inside but then there is this outer skin that I never really see, or interact with. The version of myself that I can't seem to connect with or understand. This being the tank that takes the blows...the one and only that is ever really considered.
When they see me, I wonder, if they look through my peep-hole and try to gawk at the real me. It's hard to look into someone's eyes because I feel like they know -- and my jig is up.
I feel like I don't know anything. Like I don't do any good. Nothing about me matters, is relative, or is of any significance to anyone.... but me. I'm self-pleasing, self-loathing, and genuinely know -- or maybe it just makes me feel -- that I'm worthless.
I feel like even the most minute task is impossible for my head to understand. Sometimes even planning getting out of bed seems exhausting. It's as if I'm asking for permission from all these people inside me to comprehend, to do, or to feel anything. It's a court. And I'm the defendant. I'm a small brown nut and the forces magnetically reflect around my true me. And I don't know how to overcome this silly trial.
I'm understanding enough of this world to know that even though I may feel like the living undead. Paralyzed, mute, def, and stupid. I can't show anyone the paint color of my walls. I know that. I have armor. The kind of armor that prevents harm. The kind that although outwardly appalling, keeps me walking around for just one more day.
I've grown so much in such a short amount of time. But I feel the steam pushing against me wanting to get out and not knowing where to come out of. The steam dances and wiggles inside my body looking and planning and escape but I've plugged all available entrances. I know the real condition of this landscape. If anyone finds out it's over. I will lose all my credibility. I will lose my place at the table.
The fear is so potent it colors the steam. I can't keep up anymore. I can't even hear. I'm starting to leak.
It rattles me
It makes me aware that we've run out of place
Even my insides are empty. I can't even take care of myself right. I can't even do this one thing correctly.
I understand it's no ones plight. I understand it doesn't matter because in this life it's a battle of the strongest, or the quickest.
I can't just give up because then I can't even afford to be considered a human.
I apply my middle class sensibilities like the finest translucent rouge. I highlight myself with western values. And I set it with everyone's gaze.
But now I feel it snake around inside me. It can't contain itself for much longer. And I don't know who's going to stop this plane from colliding but I sure know that I'm not. I'm trying to poetically keep up with the joneses, I know that. But I can't fake the eruption thats about to evade those around me.
I know that in reality my experience and my story are unimportant. And that when I do burst, it will be fodder. The tragicness of my demise.
They could find me face down, head down, with my hair scalped out of my head. Blood stained eye. Wounded knees, and cut out belly. And the time I spent suffering will mean nothing to anyone. And that's what it feels like to live with this affliction.
It's a gilded cage.
On the outside, it seems trivial, but it's a slow roasted punishment that kisses me to bed and strangles me back to life.
No one sees them. No one sees the swarm.
And it's a maddening way to live, because in reality, it's a problem I can't afford to deal with.
So I go to work, I pretend to be fine, and I go on living because the other option is living in the existence that plays out in my head.
I'm watching two movies play at once. I'm skipping rope with the same object that will end me. And I have no solutions, no resolution, nothing.
Sweet words are not enough to end the life of this million headed monster. Great intentions, and kind mantras will not stop it's destruction.
And my fields have already begun to braze.
about me, this blog.
（ •́ .̫ •̀ ) "Jorge Cruz is a transgender avant-garde artist." - Wikipedia 👯 1/2 of WEARE18 🌚🌞🌝🌒 model 👝👡🌺 pop star 🎭🇬🇧 real life barbie✨🙍
BUY MY CLOTHES
"...you're a conoisseur of all fine culture"
"The photographs are, at times, depressing. At other times, they are a celebration of the simple life."
- Curated Magazine
"You are such a dirty whore on the inside though, I love it."
"Chicago photographer, Jorge Cruz, is, in my humble opinion, what photography is all about."
- Aline Smithson, Lenscratch
"i keep forgetting how cruel you are"
"your words are harsh and insensitive"
"I think Jorge sees everything. He responds in excellent, funny, questioning ways. He is a fearless artist. I appreciate his insightfulness. It's all pretty transformative. He is a very sweet person too. Works really hard and can do so many good things! It's sort of mystifying."
" your allusions to fictional or historical characters escape me"
"A distance that is elusive and covetous"
- Land Magazine
" u'd be like "mariam this is pathetic, cooler things happen to me when i pee"
"I do not agree with your lifestyle and how you choose to follow it"
"you have an ugly heart"
"you crazy enough girl"
- Sir Nenis
A highly curated, highly selective, highly high of stuff
3 Quarks Daily
All Lacquered Up
Mon amie, Jorge
pitchfork reviews reviews