Candlelit Photos From 'Wisconsin Death Trip' By Michael Lesy (1973)

07.29

Introduction ♱

This is a last resort.

I do not enjoy writing about myself; I may even hate it. My livelihood revolves around documenting the latest advancements in medicine and synthetic biology. Passions and aspirations were left behind long ago for a career and the promise of stability. As I set aside my desire to write my truths and quench my thirst, I defy the odds laid out by those before me.

It’s fucking exhausting.

Even in days past, I never wrote about myself. Instead, I immersed myself in the characters I read about or watched in the countless pieces of media I had the time to consume. I fell in love with their struggles, perhaps projecting myself onto them. I clung to these characters so tightly, devoting myself to these fictional beings, only to be disappointed by the reality beyond the page.

Sometimes I feel I am not meant for the real world.

Now, I am grown. Independence found me early, carrying me far and gifting me with early successes that impressed those who still had others to rely on. They don't understand the circumstances; I would be the same as them if given the opportunity. Desperately, I would cling to what they consider normal, let it nurture me, and bask in a newfound dependence. In an attempt to taste reliance, I took a lover—one who grew up properly loved and appreciated. This didn't do much for me; it only exposed the gaps left in my development from a lack of care. Strangely enough, it was humiliating.

Love is humiliating.

And though it is humiliating, it is stable. My relationship screams stability. Perhaps I am the most unstable piece in the puzzle of my love; I am the root of most of our quarrels. This is not my intent. This petulance and rage are not something to be proud of. Memories of the past fade into sunken emotions that surface at the slightest hint of criticism. Though unprovoked, these bursts of emotion are so powerful that even I am surprised. So, I suppose this is an attempt to confront these feelings, to reflect enough to quiet the nagging thoughts and let the past rest.

To those reading, I offer a warm welcome. May you find solidarity in these stupid and meaningless ramblings that I promise you I will never act on.

found in grandma's drawers

08.01

Confession ♱

“You’re a furious person.”

That’s not wrong, not really. I am not kind; I was not taught to be kind. Even if kindness had been there to guide me through my youth, I doubt it would’ve taken root. Anger has dwelt in me for too long. Resentment festers within me like a plague, making me bitter—too bitter.

Yet, it’s never enough. This anger floats inside me, scarring my soul so deeply that it aches, but I can never act on it. I am not vengeful; my resentments merely turn into abandonment of those presumed closest to me. But I’m learning now as I mature—you cannot abandon love. Physically, you cannot.

When I was younger, care-free and proud of my independence, it was so easy to leave. I had never experienced longing for another person; I had never formed trust with anyone. I built myself up from nothing, and if there was even the slightest chance of being torn down, I cut it off. Quicker than these relationships could even form, I would leave them without a trace of sympathy.

I can no longer say the same. Caution has seeped into me, and I am wary of my future. I can fearfully admit, I am at a point where I have come to rely on someone. People dream of finding their soulmate, but I fear it is to my detriment. I wanted to be alone, but you won’t let me. And because you won’t let me I am angry.

Once again, I feel as I did in childhood. During puberty, I was consumed by a fury that came with the tumult of a growing female body. My emotionless self was suddenly overwhelmed with a flood of feelings that had to be drowned out. But now, as I edge into adulthood, they return, and just like then, I don’t know why. Perhaps when I am older, when my smile lines deepen, and the skin on my knuckles loosens, I’ll understand. But for now, it feels like there is nothing I can do.

I often find myself looking back at those restless teenage years, remembering when I confused innocence with bravery and charged headlong into any situation. My soulmate knows nothing of it—I was a different person then. My past is ugly, my anger is ugly, and I cannot be ugly to my love.

I can be ugly here.