I am a story teller. Whether it being through my photography or through writing, i like to tell stories and tell my own stories. I wanted to share some a few with you. They may not be the most happiest of stories they are apart of my imagination and i will be starting a new project soon with my photography where i photograph a series based on these stories.
Somewhere on rooftops sat the magician with vena cava eyes and poison on his lips. He hadn’t cried in years but he spent last night in rock clubs with punks on acid and porcelain girls on kaleidoscope podiums. He thought about the ocean and how he had dreamed about finding the most beautiful mermaid and how they would live under rock pools. She would stroke his hair all day and he would bring her shells at midnight.
He had hair like bohemian kings and he smoked opium with shaky hands. He wanted to be so many things. A painter, a sculptor or an Egyptian lover but he was dying from something in his blood. Maybe loneliness.
He wore silver charms. His mother was a gypsy who said that he was cursed. Never to love or to be loved. He would scribble poems. Pages sooted and smelling of smoke, opium, some sort of freedom. He would stand on stage, pulling rabbits out of hats and ribbons from sleeves. But every night he would quietly sit on rooftops. Bee-stung fingers.
She hated being locked up. Pearls hung from old chandeliers and she wanted to be far away. He never came to see her. He never pushed his body against hers, longing for that burning between palms. Lips. Her eyes had turned old. She had seen too much. Drunken men riding carousels on the pier and women in their finest gowns face down in the ocean.
She clutched her chest. Years of overdoses had damaged her heart. Her legs were weak and she barely dreamt anymore. Her finger nails stained purple from all the tearing and pulling and ripping off the walls and her head was full of too many tales that she knew no-one would believe.
July saw bitter winds. Her eyes pressed shut thinking of those times his stale smoky breath made her feel sick and his rugged hands would bruise her thighs. There were always black crows at the window and empty pill cases scattered on needles. She lived in a movie. But at the end, no-one ever came to save her.
She hung off the balcony. Clinging to the rain clouds she saw her future. An old lady shut in a basement with lavender and poison and young children on mattresses, dirty with pale skin and freckles.
They had never seen the ocean or the funfair on bramble hill and they often wept at night…She would ask why they were there and why she was there and why they were so full of sorrow, but they never answered.