A Letter to Reinhardt,
Sacred, the sacred mind of the human being, it is the ghost
lingering on the living body, it is lost by the boundary. Inside of fear and
the wrecked soul of the innocent, we all live inside the boundary, we are tied
into the darkest ribbons of prejudice we could’ve escaped from. We are trapped,
trapped inside a boundary of the wonders of the world.
The society, as disrespectful as usual, they don’t get the
state of the awkward behaviors of art. They get anything that does not fit in
as a medium of hating, a medium of disbelief, a medium of hatred. It’s like you
can’t be who you are because no one likes you when you are true to yourself or
you’re doing your art. It’s like when you can’t just have everything you need
in order to carry on, seen as an outcast.
In search of a runaway, we pick up along the pieces of our
earliest inspirations, our mindset and the environment affecting us, we see
throughout our dreams, our imaginations, the things you thought will never
stand a chance. Like a plastic bag, a lightweight medium only utilized, those
are the inspirations you used along.
As you are set to go, we emerged to drawn in the beautiful
imagery, where you see yourself as inspiration and your multiple personas go
around the field, the field of the golden locks and braids of the soul, like a
phoenix emerging from ashes symbolizing once we lived in fear. Don’t be afraid,
young one, don’t take the hatred, they’re a trap. As we become weightless in
dreaming, becoming the one sleeping and living and breathing and singing in the
state of dream, unconsciously we obtain the most radioactive behaviors.
Demonstrating the helpless ones we all die slowly realistically, and live a lot
more in our complex mindset, the beehive around your radioactivity is the
electric shot your heart possess, dying slowly in the cards of the poker
monochromatic reality, we burn into ashes and reinvent ourselves all over
again.
We search for fields, we search for adventures, we seek
through it with a medium of art, we melt down like candles burning inside our
passions of art, and kill the society. Like a light speed generation, we evolve
like crystallization of art, we form a reaction finally, young soul, we become
one and 8, we become the soul of the sleep and the passion of the living, we
obtain and see through, yes, we inspire.
As calm as the breeze of the wind, we chase, we chase for
the warm heart, we seek for the sun of our souls, we’ve only just begun and
almost end, we die in the warmth of our own arms and give birth to each and
every one of living particles of ourselves, like the cell dying every 24 hours
but remain beautifully. Like a beautiful melody, the nights will break, we are
the lion, the unicorn, the gargoyle, the siren, the swan, the hybrid, the alien,
and the dark souled black diamond. Our hands are magical, they kill every each
particle, appearing like dreams and particles, we are attached to it, we chase
for our own dreams, dying and living and breathing and bleeding like tangerine
to mint.
The search will end in maroon, it will end with childhood,
it will break, the bear holding the whole nation of reality, the inside of the
roses appearing fake, dead, yet alive, glued like the kiss of the phoenix. The
cup, the cup you spilled to empty your mind and spit reformed saliva of the 8,
and finally the journal, the cyber sanctuary you run to everywhere, like the
parent cell, dying with the organism it reproduces, the dream, the soul, the
fame, the art, and the reflections of the apostolic convention, the living.
But the soul will split, it will split to the ones they
reform, the dark and the light. One holds purity, virginity, innocence, and
peace, the white swan, the Holy Ghost breaking dawn and dusk with light,
running through and forward, running for the final living. And on the other
side, the Black Ghost, the raven-minded intelligence raining as the sun goes
down in pink, it conquers the world in ritualism that dies and reinvents, like
eyeliner and vanity, it never spills, it just simply spits. Both hearts are
connected, they are identical, they are itself the key to The State of
Dreaming, breaking the glass reality holds. Young Blood, Young Soul, Young Art,
go through the living, you are two but one, yet 8 in a mature way, stained with
ART as how sin should go throughout, you know what they say, a canvas is only
beautiful stained, we are masterpieces carved with soul and blood.
Photographed By: Reinhardt Kenneth and the 7 Egos.
Model: Joshua Christian
Special thanks to: The Loyal Dawi, Austin Beckrhousment and all your dreaming personas, Jo, and everyone involved.
