Abscheiden

separation |ˌsepəˈrā sh ən|noun1 the action or state of moving or being moved apart2 the division of something into constituent or distinct elements

Pfft. Who says you can't cut off fingers. Well actually... Everyone.

I guess what i've come up with could be used as a spark to an ongoing project, i really like the way these

photos came out. It all revolves around the state of separation. Whether it be (the obviously implied)

color, race, or (delving further) simply two people that, revolve around each other, but never touch

 It could be a separation of ideals, of ideas that are read as either black or white--but sometimes need to

register at middle grey. It could be a physical separation of distance, time--or an emotional separation

from the rest of humankind. The idea--the state of separation will always exist, and each separation and

source of seperation will ultimatly differ from person to person. Its about recognizing that separation exists

--making it easier to weave back into an interlacing midpoint.

Older Chests

Older chests reveal themselves, like a crack in a wall
Starting small, and grow in time. And we all seem to

need the help of someone else, to mend that shelf
of too many books.

Its odd, feeling stuck between two places you call home. This bedroom was my safe haven--now it feels like i'm

floating amidst boxes that will never be fully unpacked. Where do I belong? Oh, I'm just overanalyzing again... But

who do you run to at 3:14 am when the world has gone to bed? Who do you talk to when you can't seem to

expel any words from your frustrated mouth? You lie awake until your eyelids can't possibly exert any

more flutters, you delve into music that lets your brain rest for a moment. You let go. Maybe the one thing I

have yet to learn how to do in my eighteen years of living is to simply--let go. I've spent years of my life holding

onto baggage I can't seem to unpack, just like the luggage filled room that is strewn out in front of me. Why?

I need to find space to put everything.

I need to find a release--and I think I'm beginning to conceptualize it.

Stranded

"You choose, you choose poetry over prose."

Damaged Casting

Elephant skin: Hardened, solid crevices. Markings upon grey like a map. Every inch, scarification from

The hardness you hold within your heart

Elephant eyes. Pools of soft benevolence. Windows tunneling to the soul. Every glance, chills radiating within

The tissue that holds the thick of your bones.