When the bones talk...

...A work of art is a confession...

~Albert Camus

I know, it gets harder to breathe. It gets easier to drown. It is simple to live. It is difficult to survive. But like the people say, you must live, live in chaos, live in cuddles, live. 

Hmm..

LIVE. 

What a dreadful word. 

***

A monster within you try to speaks louder than you and somehow instead of fighting it, you give yourself away into it, in his cold arms. 

Fight. Fight. Fight. 

With all your might. 

But you become the monster's maiden. 

You keep yourself firm from the outside, a tough one. Refusal becomes your first name. 

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. 

Never break but bend. 

Oh but what about the insides dear? The insides that hurt you? The hardest of your bones when begins to crumble and loses its frame? The one only you experience? The frostbite you feel even in the middle of the summer? The one that only you sense it? The obscured feelings remaining unacknowledge? The half-written undecipherable scribbles? The blotting left on your paper? The complete mesh work you left behind? The ten minutes torture of agony mixed with grief, not to mention the five stages? The inexplicable thrash in your body? The stomach churning moment? 

And who will speak for the palpitations??? 

***

My bones speak the truth. Not the sweetest one dear, but the ugliest one. Not the soft gates of heaven but the rusted gate whirled with wild vine. 

Pics~ (Nothing could have described this trash talk than an Albarran Cabrera aesthetic photography) 

Taken from Instagram. Albarrancabrera