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Jasper Sloan Yip
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It Must Be True
You make it up to take apart. No matter what, sometimes you hate your art. You love her like you love your work：she makes you happy when she doesn't make you hurt.
And so, you carry on this way.
Every day and all at once you tumble farther down inside of yourself. Like driftwood landing on some beach, you've ended up somewhere you did not foresee when you were being swept away.
So tear yourself apart and call the pieces art. Though no longer whole, in death you'll be reborn like autumn's yellow leaves shaking in the cold, falling from their branches and rotting down below the tree that let them fall, indifferent to their fate. And crouching on the roots I strive to feel the same because everything is right, yes, everything is fine. They have been a part of something that survives.
That's what everyone says, so it must be true, I guess.
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