Zozo's

Dear Signore Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio,  your life history was a wreck and your creations have horrors within them, the primitivity of desire, cruelty and fear you have bestowed upon us with your works, it reflects upon the modern circle of life that is naturally cruel and competitive. even with these divine laws and rules to keep us in bay, the humanness of our existence still cannot precede those divine laws bestowed upon us. your life itself was the picture. people call you and your art disturbing and horrific but to me, it reflects how the innate-ness of one's existence that brings the primal side of everyone, even the most perfect gods and angels. Dear fragile SeñoraFrieda Kahlo, your life and works have been both horror and inspiration. Your life, your shame, your pain and especially the torment of your womanhood that are reflected on your creations are felt very deeply and understood immensely. your paintings were called disturbing and too intimate because how deep a...

The weather was breezy and light. It was just me and my toys, alone in a distracted, peaceful world— that small balcony of the house my parents built. I was perhaps four, or five. Then, I was scooped up, dragged into my parents' bedroom. Voices tense. Faces demanding. "Did you take your father's cigarettes?" I said no. Because I didn’t. I truly didn’t. But the maid told my mother she’d seen me go into the room. And I remembered—I had. But I never saw the cigarettes. I didn’t even know where they were kept. Still, my mother took The Stick and struck my behind. I cried, and cried. I didn’t understand what was happening. I was just playing house. Now suddenly, I was a thief. My mother screamed, demanded truth. And I lied—for the first time— because it hurt. I didn’t understand how or why, but it hurt. And I needed it to stop. So I pointed to the bottom of the desk. She searched. Found nothing. Hit me again. I cried harder, and pointed t...

I lifted my paintbrush, dipped it into the acrylic, and began to explore. I moved with unknowing ease, shaping my creation not with my brain— but with my heart. I blended and sharpened edges, my paintbrush dirty, my bedroom closed, my clothes and skin stained— but my heart felt free. Like little me, who once escaped the world with her rough, raw sketches. It brought a joy out of me. It felt like a forest, and I walked and walked until I stumbled into a home I had forgotten. There was no darkness, no pain, nothing else— just me and my brush exploring. No matter how many errors, I could re-brush, cover it up, work on its healing instead of leaving it behind. I painted today. I called it "Fragility Meets Cosmic Quantum Mysticism" And I didn’t stop there. I plan to do more— to create more. Because no matter how many times I fail, I can begin again with just a splash of colour. I write and paint now. Yes, I write and paint. What a journey it has bec...

Dear Nietzsche, Lately, I have been overwhelmed by my youth, and I feel depressed. I try to see through the day with the power of will, as you once taught that it should motivate and strengthen me. But, dear sir, my will keeps telling me to rot in bed, to waste my day away doing nothing and being nothing. It overwhelms me that you and Sartre emphasized how we must take control of our lives that it is our responsibility, our burden, our freedom. But what does it mean to take control when the mind, the very thing that is supposed to lead, begins to collapse? What happens when your brain starts to shut down, and tells you you’re worthless even when you're trying so hard to live? The Übermensch in me is straddled and muffled, suffocated by numbness and emptiness. I cannot stop it, even though I try, God knows I try. But tell me, sir, what is “trying” when you just sit in the same space, simply existing? What does it mean to do something or be someone when you can’t, even when yo...

I sit before the screen, struggling to summon the words. I love existentialism in thought and theory— yet when I try to write, the dread overwhelms me. I stopped taking my meds— the numbness was louder than the pain. I needed to feel something, even the demons inside me. I love what I do—truly, I do. But I can’t move. My mind is still, heavy with fog. I’m stuck. I type, I think, I pour— but still, dread overtakes me. My supervisor— precise, but gentle— told me my work had everything, and yet, nothing. It lacked depth. I cried. Hard. Right there, in front of him. Not out of shame. Not out of embarrassment. But because something inside me feels lost. I hated myself. Still do. And yet— here I am. At my desk, crying, dreading, still trying as inevitable doom looms over me. Still, I’m here. Writing this, not what I’m supposed to. I cry— but the tears are hollow. Still here… am I? I hope that counts for something. I hope. I really do hope so badly.

hey lord, you know I’m trying. i’m failing. i’m spiraling. i’m lost. i don’t know who i am anymore. but lord, i’m trying. i’m trying so fucking hard. is this enough, lord? i am confused—so confused. when will i be able to sleep? please help me. please… save me from the sins of my own mind. and when you do— please, let me rest.