is an art;


a game

to become


than just


an horizon into

As humans, we attract what we put out :

Today I feel :


And just like people read shampoo bottles while they take a shit, I became my own prophet; out of boredom. People tell me if they knew all I knew at my age, they'd be rich today. Good for them. I guess it's a compliment. I just never could be bothered by the promise of money. Rich people still manage to design their own version of hell. They say once you've tasted every inflexion of pleasure, the only stimulation left to be desired is pain. I believe that. People aren't sad. They're just fucking bored. Not because there's nothing to do. Quite the opposite, matter of fact. There's so much to do nowadays it feels like boredom has become a choice. Truth is, what I've come to encounter recently is a jaw-dropping amount of people that have so few things to talk about that they'd rather speak on what other people are doing than discuss what their own aspirations are. Because that'd imply they had to choose one to start from. I'm not hating. I think what I'm trying to say is that choice is a catalyst. That's really it. People, in front of a decision, experience Godliness.

To make a choice is to shine light on a selected outcome. To make a choice is also to cast an grim shadow on all other potentialities. God and Saturn are the same guy. You bring home a flower you had to cut from its stem. You  bake a beautiful. cake with eggs that had the potential to become roosters. The same as you choose to incarnate a version of yourself that will eat all other entities you could have manifested. Therefore, choosing is just as much an act of birth as it is an act of murder. And in this sadistic curiosity, it becomes much safer for people to watch other in the act of becoming, letting Catharsis take care of the sentiment of fulfillment while never risking death themselves.The prophecy now becomes something like this : Nothing can live which has never got the chance to die.

A thought; by marjorie

i pondered a long time behind the counters of bars; looking at human beings. they never cease to amaze me. but when i stop and really take the time to see them for what they are, to observe what we are capable of, i only end up in marvel at the fact that we do not want money, we do not want romantic love.
we want to be validated; to know that it's really okay that we exist.
why live decades trying to fit in a mold that isn't made for us? Why bother make other people like us when they stare at you blankly when you ask them what they love?
when it comes to my imagination, no bounds can be reached, no reality is too far-fetched. fuck, there are so many possible outcomes.
there's a universe breathing within me.
Unleashing it merely became a necessity.


I hate the fact that my creativity is wanking itself theses days. Really, there's a thought that obsesses me and the very concept is self-aware. All I can think about is thinking about stuff. My mind is walled between the fact that it wants to create and the belief that it cannot produce anything beyond the bar of mediocrity. Not that I'm afraid of failure. I just think that besides copying what I find nice on the Internet, my skills outmatch my insight by a tenfold. To me, it feels like a prison which I can't escape.  Even me writing this somehow feels like a proof of the trap I've laid out for myself. I can't seem to talk about anything else other from the concept of the lack of originality. Like my inner child is long gone and that no matter what I believe of myself, it can never come back in time to bring me up into the artist I wish to become. Because, let's not kid ourselves, I wasn't born to become an agency designer. What I expect of myself is slowly starting to endanger the truthfulness of my art. I feel like it's less and less me that's poured out into my designs and more the version of me I haven't become yet. Yet, I feel like this is the version that others need me to be.

I carry out this conversation in my head to no limits. To the point at which it even stops me from starting my work. Truth is, it's still vague to me what's the point I enjoy the most about my process. I'm so easily distracted, I find an infinite amount of reasons to postpone my work, even if I know how important it is.

Maybe it all leads up to this. Maybe what I'm really afraid of is that my art ends up meaning nothing. I feel that by acknowledging the demands of everyone, by following what I think the current trends are, by copying the designers I admire, I lose myself in a meltdown of concepts that are, yes, beautiful but that all to nowhere. I have yet to grasp the concept of what a good designer is. Of what an accomplished artist should do. Of  what it takes to truly feel original. At this point, the angst is a result of the knowledge of what I can be confronted to the frustration of not feeling like I possess the the spark necessary to present my Universe to others. At this point, I'm not sure whether I believe if it's something I can evolve into or if I've missed my shot at using up my innate creativity. Not that I'm too old but rather that I might have lost touch with the part of me that lacks the need of make each second of labour profitable.