The Order of Things

I have spent the last several days trying to put these images to words only to fail, time and again.

I have framed them from the context of insomnia


of beauty


Of decay and fatigue.


I have tried talking about ideals


by comparing them to reality


Never satisfied with the final product but ever-plagued by a single thought:

I am finished.


I have been putting square pegs into round holes, forcing words onto images when pictures alone would suffice.


But the thing is: I want you to know. Want you to know about the insomnia and the decay. The living and the dying.


The saved and the condemned


The beautiful and the superficial


The perception and reality


And so every time I write, I am split into a thousand directions — all of them diverging, and all of them as discursive as the next.

But this is life, I tell myself.


This series of unending dualities. This polarity and inequality.


This is nothing new, I say to myself, pulling the covers to my chin and praying, dear God, to awaken some morning and know precisely


where I belong.