I think I fell in love with you last night while I was drunk. I could have fucked you all night long, fucked our hours gone. Retched and heaved with every beat, spun my mind, grasped your heat. I think I threw out all I had. I threw up what was left.
Your lover; your brother; your blood and your bones.
This might just be one of my favourite posts I have ever made on tumblr. All of us have secrets we wish to keep secret in order to protect ourselves from judgement or teasing but New Orleans-based artist Candy Chang found a way to give people the opportunity to share their thoughts without having to feel vulnerable to the outside world. Her installation, entitled Confessions, is a public art project that took place in The Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas, Nevada. For one month, Chang lived in Vegas and turned the P3 Studio Gallery into an interactive exhibit. Visitors could stop by, enter a booth, write whatever thoughts they wanted to share, and drop the confession into a box that mixed anonymously with other slips. Chang then took the anonymous slips and displayed them on the walls, painting selected responses in white against a larger red canvas background.
Throughout the exhibit, the shocking reality of a person’s true secrets are fascinating to read. Some of my favourites can be found in this photoset like:”I’ve been best man to two guys I used to sleep with who went on to marry women”; “My best friend beat a man to death when we were 15. Never told anyone. Still hurts.”
"I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down."
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Was it when you closed the door that you lost your mind? Or was it the night of your 5th birthday, when the curtains were yawning and the starless skies crept their way through and shone their gloom upon your fragile little chest. Was it your first kiss, those nerves and the inability to breathe because the wonders took your breath away? I wonder if it had anything to do with your detrimental family; your father and the way he patronised and made you feel like mud; endlessly hammering and chipping away at your self worth or perhaps it was your mother manifesting her late-night insecurities, crying over a bottle of whiskey while wailing profanities at your sister for her depleting love affair with an eating disorder. Was it when we first met? when I crawled into every crevice within your heart and snuck right into you, laying dormant for years and forgetting I was even there woefully rotting within you, with you. Was it I that ultimately lost your mind?
In The Mourning.
In the mourning, dear, I’ll be ready; primed and fit for years of this. In the mourning, love, I’ll see colours; blues of all hues and pigments of pinks. I’ll splay your tints on canvassed surfaces and brush your body all soft and silken. I’ll write passages of poised prose and hurl up words of wonder and shoot the Sunday window long, solemn glances. In the mourning, dear, I’ll be the most creative I’ll ever be; I’ll draw those woeful faces on park benches, devise musical melancholy and feel every pinch of anguish I can extract from my heavy heartbeats. In the mourning, I’ll feel the warmth of the suns incessant flow engulf me, I’ll see the world in a different light and cry out in agony over the beauty I don’t have.
I’m alive when I’m mourning my love.
"Putting my hand in someone else’s has always been my definition of happiness. Before I fall asleep, often - in that small struggle not to lose consciousness and go into the greater world - often, before I get up the courage to go into the vastness of sleep, I pretend that someone has my hand in theirs, and then I go, go to that enormous absence of form that is sleep. And when even after that I don’t have courage, I dream."
Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H. (translated by Ronald W. Sousa)