Some nights the mirror feels like an enemy. My face looks wrong. My hair won’t listen. My body doesn’t belong to me. And the weight of it all folds into the same conclusion I hate myself. I care too much about things that shouldn’t matter. Numbers. Attention. Who stayed, who didn’t. I convince myself I’ll … Continue reading Dreams, Noise, and Silence
Born beneath pink skies. Disappeared into blush nights.Never said goodbye.Just stopped showing up. Some stories don’t end with words. They fade into silence, softer than the memory of a sunset. One day you’re laughing under skies painted pink, and the next you’re a ghost in your own life. Not every goodbye is spoken. Some are … Continue reading Born Beneath Pink Skies
I go by a few names. Not for mystery’s sake, but because each one holds a different version of me. JC the Kid is the part of me that remembers— late-night drives, quiet moments, conversations I never finished. That name lives where nostalgia and curiosity collide. It’s the voice behind the lens. The one still … Continue reading Still Imagery, Lost Observations
There’s a pile of ideas in my head, and none of them know how to swim. They’re just floating there—half-finished scripts, scribbled lyrics, scenes I can’t stop replaying. Some loud, some quiet. All of them waiting. I keep telling myself I’ll get to them. When life slows down. When I feel better. When the timing … Continue reading Lost. Art. Scripts.
I just want to be great at something. And for people to notice. But I don’t want to chase it. I don’t want to play the game. I don’t want to shout over the noise just to be seen. I want to take images that feel like me—soft, quiet, a little heavy. And I want … Continue reading I Just Want to Be Great
Some days I feel like I’m chasing a version of myself I’ll never catch. The artist I imagine in my head is smarter, faster, more creative. They know what they’re doing. They make things that matter. They don’t second-guess every move. But I do. I hesitate. I doubt. I look at my work and wonder … Continue reading The Distance Between the Artist I Am and the Artist I Want to Be
There’s something about the silence of snow—how it blankets the world, muffling the noise, leaving nothing but the hum of your own thoughts. Tonight, the sky burns soft, caught somewhere between purple and pink, like it’s trying to tell a secret it can’t quite share. The trees stand still, frozen in time, yet somehow alive. … Continue reading winter’s quiet conversation
I never got the chance to meet my biological father. He died 11 years ago. My whole life I never knew why he didn’t want me. I never knew what I did to make him hate me. News flash I was a baby. I didn’t do anything. I grew up hating this man. I would … Continue reading Heroin
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