The Saints Of Mibba

I love the feeling of the paint plastered all over my skin. I don't care if my clothes are ruined, if my hair is dirty, if my day has been wasted. There is nothing more glorious than the friction of my ideas against a blank surface that later on becomes a part of me. A piece of my memory, for everyone to see but not understand. I don't care if my hands hurt, there is nothing more glorious than the feeling of getting something finished.

It's a high. An electric current that rewires the brain. I don't care if I'm fucked, if my head's going to give away anytime soon, but there is nothing better than the rush. It's a feeling that lasts years until you can't remember how you felt without it. I don't care if in the very end I loose myself to it. It's beautiful and I don't want it to go away.

Maybe I'm just dreaming, hallucinating even. Maybe everything around me isn't what I think it is. But I can't let that control me. I don't care if the minerals in the paint will make me sick in the end, it feels so good to put that paintbrush in your mouth and give it a quick twist. I don't care if it feels like an obsession, if it affects everything I write and say. It just feels so good to wake up some days and decide that you don't want to face the world, that you just want to limit yourself to one place, one surface. One canvas, under God.

There comes a point in which you see everything from a whole new perspective. What used to be a sunrise is now melted watercolours. The sun doesn't hurt your eyes, and it's just... white. I don't care if I go blind. The sun today is radical and amazing, and I just want it to tear me apart. I want to memorize every single color. Every single shade and tone. Everything.

It all starts feeling like a dream. Your friends start getting all concerned, thinking you're depressed or something. I always feel awkward when they ask me what's wrong. Because in reality, I'm confused and I'm scared, but I'm happy. I'm living life, I'm alive. I don't care if my stomach feels sick, if to others i just seems like a piece of shit. I don't give a damn. Everything is perfect, beautiful. I'm not suffering. I'm perfectly alright.

But then they start noticing that you twitch. You seem withdrawn, invisible even. So many things bother you, make you snap, make you angry. So many things and counting. I don't care if I lose, I'm not giving up the feeling. I don't give up, no matter how much I start lying, no matter how many people I end up hurting. Sure, it hurts when they hurt, but it a price to pay. I have everyone and I'm lonely. I don't care if they want to hurt me, I'm not opening up.

Good God, the sun. And you obsess over spaceships and rockets and eyes and lips. And you love and hate, just like everyone else, but the over attachment kills you. Every time, every one. I can't ever forget them. The sun calls out my name, the eyes are everywhere, the lips burn. Oh, and how the spaceships go around the world. And I will be a rocket. And I do believe in fairies, I do, I do. And the rest, everyone just worries. Everything in your life is just one big secret. I can't deal with it. I don't care if I can't be honest. I'm not giving it up.

The days are fast, and I'm running to keep up with them. I'm dying while I'm living. It's not fair. I should just fucking live. I don't feel alive anymore. The lips hate me, the eyes confuse me. The fairies talk to me and they're scary, dear mother. I can't seem to concentrate, and I'm pushing everything aside. And then I can't function, no matter how hard I try. And it all gnaws me up on the inside. And I'm falling for girls with dark hair and boys just like me. It's a mess. I don't care.

I smell like ink and taste like that cheap perfume I wore when I first started. With this, with everything. I can breathe, but there's no air. I'm fighting it.

I don't care if I don't care. I'll just stare at the sun. For as long as I live.