to banksy: 13 February 2012

TO BANKSY:

I want everything that’s in your mind, I need a revolution, I need something secret and important to give me a purpose, to show me life means something more than surviving. I want it to be mine and only mine, I want to cradle my purpose under the darkness in a back alley. I want to escape the social values.

How can you do anything if you think everything is pointless, futile? There is a rush in giving a message to the world, there is a rush in giving a message to you, I don’t know you, maybe I am you, maybe there is a small part of you in everyone. I don’t want to be anyone. I want to be separate from everyone else but a part of something big. Have you escaped the slavery of money and society? Have you escaped the system?

Where are you? How can I find you? I see you everywhere but you slip away under black paint and words I want to say. Why isn’t your art on the building where I live? Why isn’t your art by King’s Cross? I can’t find it anymore, it’s too secret. I want in on the secret.

 

Do you get a lot of mail? Are you still alive? When you wake in the morning do you fully realize the impact you’ve made on the world? Do you feel the same as you’ve always felt? Are you afraid your mask will come off? Will you ever read these words? Do you feel that other people’s poetry is painfully boring?

I love this catharsis, will you keep it a secret? Send me a telepathic message. I don’t want to be the same as anyone else, I can’t stand the mindless eyes of worker bees. I want art, I want rebellion, I want no anxiety about earning money to eat. Why do I have to eat? Why do I have to sleep? When do you sleep? How old are you? What do you want? Have you always wanted this?

Is there safety in a world such as this? What are you doing right now? Are you writing a book? Are you creating something new? Are you deciding what you’ll wear today? Will you ever stop creating street art?

This is an unedited first draft. This is my original train of thought. This is subjective reality encased in language. Do you ask enough questions? If you could live your life over again would you do anything differently? If you could have another talent what would it be? Do song lyrics inspire you? Do you make lists? How do you decide where to put your art? Do you like Hello Kitty?

Truth is, I’m in love with you. I’m in love with the fact that I don’t know who you are. I’m in love with the mystery, the signs of your existence, but no face to put to your name. I’m in love with your mind and the things you write. I can’t love anyone I know because no one is good enough, artistic enough, intelligent enough. No one encompasses the revolution I desire. I can only love famous people or dead people or characters in books that were never real.

I love you because I know I’ll never meet you. I’m in love with black paint and the images it forms. I’m in love with the excitement when I come across your work inadvertently and pretend I’m part of the secret, pretend I helped or saw you creating from afar. I love you because the world revolving around you is a mystery I can’t quite reach.