I’m afraid, he said as he put his ounce of scotch down. He could feel his fingertips slowly burning as he inhaled from the last Parliament living in an old pack that tasted like memories of the night before. I’m afraid to look back at the golden age of my life and realize that the glow was only strong because it shined in a world of nothingness. I grew up fast, always feeling nostalgia bleed through my veins of old memories that were created when I wasn’t even alive. Listening to the 1977 recording of Stevie Nicks preach Dreams in Seattle on repeat. I was born yesterday. Somewhere between the fall of the Berlin Wall and the creation of nip slips. I was born at the end of my life and decided to age young. Growing up, hearing muted echoes of racks of blow disappearing behind the wall that supported my pillow, half of my DNA was conceived by decades of self-destruction that I can’t solve the puzzle to. I’m afraid to carry that gene and look back at a beautiful life of sleepless nights that kept my body at a still seventy-two degrees while the world was igniting around me. I’m driven by passion and dreams that make me just another body in a sea of generation-why millennials. Fueled by the insecurities in my narcissism, I still feel indebted to my past of fuck ups and fear that I’m still letting them burn today. I was created to filter blows, but I’m afraid to stop feeling it all again like I did that night. Had it been me lined in chalk, the last chapter of this story would have just been a sad tale of what-happened-last-night-sydrome and I refuse to conclude it without making the world smile. The high I get from it all is inexplicable but I’m afraid that it won’t ever cross the line into satisfaction. And that’s what we all really want isn’t it, some form of elation?
You’re not afraid anymore, he responded as he stared down at the melted ice in his glass of Macallan. Find what you love and dig your nails into it until you feel yourself sink. Let the passion destroy your insides and ignite everything that doesn’t put them back together. Find what fuels that breath that saves you from drowning and let it burn through your lungs. Cry about, scream at, fight for that one thing that makes your future flash by your eyes. Find that one fucking thing that makes you feel like you can actually live forever, cling onto it until your fingers turn pale and let happiness kill you.
Jeremy Fall in Los Angeles Magazine
Chapter Eight: Limitless.
I want to create a new everything, he said. And I’m not stating that as the beginning of a diatribe about classicism and the inequalities in our society and the no-one-gives-a-fuck about what I think the solution is. I want to create things then recreate them. Things that people can inhale through their minds and exhale through their dreams. I want to redefine shapes. Then I want to use them to create newer ones. Any form of artistic progression ever made has been pushed by every single person on the planet whether they realize it or not. We live in a world where aesthetics translate into emotions. A beautiful face, a stroke of paint, the architecture of a city, the color palettes in our homes. Everything. Every line, curve, empty space. Every single detail. It all affects how and what we feel. I’ve always believed that a triangle is the most honest of all shapes, it’s the only one that stands its ground. It’s the shape with the strongest presence, the most elegant, none of its edges point in the same direction, none of them are ever aesthetically the same. A triangle is the leader, it tells the rest which way to go, it stands at the top. It doesn’t follow the conversation, it creates it.
Our world is full of ceilings, rules, limits, guidelines, telling us how we need to do things. What the right way is. The purest form of genius is conceived in worlds without borders. The best way to fit the mold is to break it. I just want to feel the music scream louder when I draw outside the lines. I’m done with setting rules for myself to follow. I want to build the tallest building in the world just so i can scream from the top of it. I want to revolutionize everything from the tiniest pixel to the biggest canvas. Everything. A ten foot statue should be turned into twelve into fifteen-pushing-twenty. I want to keep pushing every little idea to the furthest impossible point. True innovation occurs when something preexistent is recreated differently. And that’s what I’m doing, I’m recreating the cool and making it surreal. I’m perfecting what we’re happy with to make us ecstatic. I’m converting comfort into the highest form of elation. I’m taking the amazing and making it extraordinary.
Zero Eight Fifteen.
FALL look book twenty thirteen shoot preview.
A fucking dream.
Chapter Seven: Pitch Black Canvas.
I’m terrified, he said as he poured himself another drink. Terrified to find the muse that’ll murder my inspiration. I know that sounds completely paradoxical, but my creativity is fueled by pain that can turn brick into ash. To the world, this may read like the first chapter of a cynical addict’s diatribe, but I promise it’s all part of finding the cheat sheet to happiness. They say that you can’t make anyone else happy unless you’re happy yourself but what if it’s the other way around? Call this a dark, fucked up fantasy but what if happiness comes after all the stabs, blows and wounds? What if genuine happiness comes from fulfilling it for someone else? Half my life has been a mind and body war of independence vs. dependance. I’ve been at the edge of the battlefield and back in a search for euphoria. But now I just want to utilize that struggle and translate it into complete elation, someone else’s elation.
I’m a creator in an art form that gives people the ability to express themselves, something that’ll give anyone the power to scream without having to breathe a single word. With every pitch black canvas, comes the ability to ignite anything and create something new. I’m just afraid to lose it all, the pain that is. The masochism is all in being afraid to heal. All I’m doing is using the fuck ups to correct the future, not expecting the future to correct my fuck ups. But now I just feel like I’m watching a cigarette slowly burn at my fingertips and can’t seem to let it go. I know none of this makes complete sense but I just want to know if it’s all part of the search. The search for you. Does this tunnel have anything at the other end of it or am I going to fall into emptiness, again? You’re going to have to walk through it, she said. Stand up and take yourself to the end. Every journey lies in a pool of fear, but your motivation to walk through is what will determine the strength of your backbone. Just remember not to run this time.
Forever 21 x Coachella