Lo-fi

Lo-fi

An honest confrontation the other day—one without conclusion. She asked me what was off, how to fix it, why I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find the words just then, but here they are for you: I want to have an effect. To be counted off in metrics. Corporeal: tangible shine or tangible rust. I want to write the stone and watch the ripple. I want others to measure it, engage it, feel it, taste it, scrap it, forget it, uncover it. I want to be inhaled in warm, smoky basements and exhaled in brisk winter night. I want to be the final thing they muse about before sleep drags them off.

The thing is that I know it’s all on me. Alright. But what length will this prove? I want to be worth something. (Or at least worth salvaging.)

So hold me to the fire. Shape me. Melt and bend the framework. Reconcile. I’m a creator; this is my release. Wrong like redscale film is wrong: purposeful, artistic despite itself. Expose something new, alter it and keep it. That’s what I want.