Dear August Journey,
Things have become rather difficult on your behalf now. The quarter moon has gently risen from above freshly-planted cornflower fields, and the way it illuminated the stalk of wheat stuck in between your taut scowl somehow reminded me of a vagrant angel I once saw in passing; perhaps in my most violent fever dreams, perhaps in the periphery of a forgotten childhood memory. Though, pray was I wrong about my prior assumptions?
I see that the jingling change in your pockets has been growing lighter with every dead-end town you pass by; your phantom presence barely rustles past rickety wooden establishments and suspicious-eyed locals like lost tumbleweeds and chasing dust by your worn-out rawhide boots, as you search for something that adamantly refuses to be found. The other shoe has dropped, all your horses have long-ago died of exhaustion when the heat rang high and clean water was scarce, and what you wouldn’t have given God’s mercy for just a little more time. But, isn’t that what you were running away from in the first place?
Your lover’s hands have slowly become loveless and the cobweb cracks are beginning to rapidly spread beyond your glazed eyes onto your craggy cheeks; and when you point your rusty revolver at an awaiting glass bottle, you always seem to target tattered fences and yonder valleys instead of hitting the mark dead-on, like you once always used to. And you grieve—oh, how much I have seen you grieve—but that’s just life. The prowling wolves have not ran for your bones yet; but with the way you refuse to interfere with your intrepid fears, they may as well already have stripped off your aged soul from the very edges of your sunbeaten hat and devoured the rest of you whole with a final triumphant flourish. And you let it be—and you sit on the initials of your name like a half-boiled eulogy—and you simply wait for the end—but won’t you try to shake off the ghosts stowing away and going in circles on your bloodstained coattails?
The ashes of the past shall surely fall, and fall in relentless mayday storms it shall; though it will not dwell any longer than a sluggish summer’s day if you bravely shut your eyes and hold your breath for just a minute…inhale not a speck and you may just come out the other end and weep in relief. The devil may arrive horns akimbo to take us both in our sleep, but please keep faith in me when I tell you that the journey is still far from over. It is embedded in your fate, in your veins, within your very namesake itself. I know your mama taught you from the very beginning to carry yourself ablaze and go out nobly, as rightfully as that may sound—yes indeed, she is your lifegiver, but she is not your sole devotion to life. Now come ye, renegade riders, hold out your pains and set them forth beneath the river of obscure sorrows, where every prayer and worry and promise shall all be washed downstream, away from goldmines and cardboard towns and shaky bodies without nerves—come ye, and hold out to me—hold out for me—
For you are you, August Journey. You are snapping tongues and bloody wit and resisting restlessness, you are the last stubborn leaf on a wilted elm branch still resolutely hanging on amid the very cusp of winter’s solemn death, you are the weary travellers you crossed and the sweetest damsels’ hearts your broke, you are the raucous enemies you peppered with cordite and the allies you shook callused hands with over a quiet pint, you are the mistakes you made peace with and the aimless footsteps you trekked all over your stolen frontier map—you are you and more than you, more than you could ever be. So, what do you say? Ready for one more hell on high water, or will your yellowed sheets hang short on the bedframe tonight?
The canaries chirping their royal codas, and the towering citadels built of crushed diamonds, and the coiling canyons without coal dust and cold nights, they all beckon you on. And I am me, and so must I be. Dear August Journey, I surely wish things would not be difficult for you any longer. The full moon shall rise once again from above unharvested fields and illuminate the crooked dagger’s glint in between your cunning grin; the vagrant angel they spoke of in hushed tones and classic legends is finally coming home. Ride on, August Journey.
Heaven awaits you, and so do I.
(Just some extra bits from my artwork. I wanted to play around with painting surreal, impressionistic backgrounds using gouache and using a vaporwave-esque colour scheme, so this is the end result of it along the write-up, which I wrote afterwards in a fit of possessed inspiration. I also threw in a little snippet of the wip lofi song I’ve been working on for a couple of days now in the video above, because I think it fits the overall ambiance of this entire project well and y’know, why not. I had honestly so much fun making this, and that final tape peeling??? ✨ S a t i s f y i n g ✨)
life’s been kinda fucked. anxiety and depressive episodes have been really bad. so many big and sudden changes happening both in and out of my personal perspective that i’m finding maybe just a bit hard to cope with. incessantly worrying over certain things and people even though it’s rather pointless to do so but i can’t help it all the same. mild vapid distractions don’t seem to be working anymore and i literally can’t do anything normal nor mindless without overpowering guilt having a big go at me, yelling that i shouldn’t be doing it at all because god damn it, life can’t go on right now—not with everything else that’s going on at the moment, you inconsiderate selfish cunt. 2020 just somehow keeps stretching into another insane bout of unwanted changes and numbing limbo and miserable infinity and at this point, it’s honestly quite reasonable to wonder if it’s still even worth it to keep hanging around. if not, then perhaps the total surrender could be justified if there’s nothing really left to look forward to out there anymore. huh. some rotten food for thought. i wanna fucking throw up. or just stay off the internet for a while. anyway, take care and three cheers for worsening mental instability 🥂
The current state of the world getting worse and worse with every passing minute + some personal comedowns and lingering paranoid afterthoughts + just the usual unreasonable brain dysfunction fuckery have really got my anxiety spiking up to unbearable extents lately, so here are some random practice gouache animals I painted last night in an attempt to zone out of reality and keep myself distracted for a couple hours.
Well I mean, they’re supposed to be animals but I don’t really know how to properly draw any sort of creature outside of Pokémon species and Animal Crossing villagers, so they’re more really closer to vague, blobby, bastardised approximations of what may or may not be IRL animals or just completely made-up ones at this point, soz who knows. I obviously couldn’t be arsed halfway through making some of these and that’s why they look like they crave the sweetest release of death but oh well :^) 20 internet points if y’all could tell which ones those were (surprise!! t’was actually all of them!! jk but not really). I think the bee looks the best though, I did love making those fuzzy textures and translucent wings and ah heck maybe I just like bees a lot anyhow, bzz bzz. Also, slightly off-topic but my poor sketchbook is falling apart so much that it’s basically only held together by crude bits of washi tape at this point and I only have less than ten pages before I finally fill it all up and wow I reeeeaaally need to purchase a new one at the earliest possible convenience. Hopefully a better quality one that won’t buckle too much if at all under my constant art supply abuse???
Anyway, I digress. I’ve also found that listening to instrumental piano music greatly helps to calm me down—as much as I do adore electric guitars beating me up with crunchy distorted djent riffs, extreme nonstop drum snares and blast beats, and spaghetti bass strings tuned lower than hell itself whilst the vocalist with a voice of fifty tortured lovecraftian monsters shrieking in unison beckons me on to get the fuck up and disrespect my surroundings, bless that heavenly beautiful-sounding instrument as well—and I listened to the 0124 album by Hiroko Murakami while making these (along with some soul-cleansing classical pieces by Debussy and Ravel, can’t go wrong with those ofc). And if all else fails, I pretty much just make a nice fresh mug of lemon green tea and nick some biscuits off the grocery bags and then afterwards proceed to curl up and bury my face in my sleeping cat’s soft warm tummy for a couple minutes and quietly yell about uninteresting trivialities until I either start to feel better or simply pass out from severe exhaustion. As a matter of fact, I think that may hit the spot, so ta and goodbye for now :>
Good morning, sunshine.
You are a slow sip of icy coffee on a sweltering summer day, sweet and bitter and decadent and satisfying all at the same time. The yawning sun is barely peeking out of the horizon, still playful and forgiving; bathing you in childish glows and warm reverie. Life is nothing more than a bite of honey-dipped pastry and freshly-made ham and cheese sandwich, a shared table with an aged stranger, a silly dream full of friendship and fast times and flirtation—life is nothing more than fleeting polaroid snapshots of blurry smiles and quiet contemplation. Now melt the ice between your teeth, let the chill run down your lungs, and let the wandering words on your pen speak for themselves.
It is only morning, after all, and the universe is still quite hazy. Breathe it in. Make it last.
i will never understand how you leave me like this.
this sorry state of mine, wretchedly piteous. i feel as though all of the pivotal sockets in my body are being violently wrenched away from their joints; every part of me is so stretched out to its very limits that if you were to do so much as to gently touch me, your hand would simply rip right through my gossamer skin.
yet this pain…it’s rather so elegant, so otherworldly, so magnanimously efficacious, that i simply can’t help but agonisingly writhe my way back to it again, despite knowing the inevitable torture that lies ahead. the sight of you. the sound of you. the merest infinitesimal sense of you—so frustratingly palpable that your conjured afterimage begins to bleed into the monochrome universe around me, until i could no longer see anyone nor anything anymore, but you.
you. you. you. you’re clinging onto me like confused kerosene to an open flame, ideas scheming ideations, screaming ideologies, spilling idle love.
you leave me like this, and yet you l e a v e .