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Simon Thibault

April 1998

This happened.

That happened about a month ago. This is my April column for 1998, and I am writing this on March 25th, 1998.

I have come to a point where i find it exremely difficult to believe in anyone, and this void has been filled with rage, frustration, and mostly fear.

And it is extremely difficult to express such things in a way which is not trite, or cliche, or completely honest to what I have to say.

And many of you have written to me to say that you admire what I say and do, and I thank you, immeasurabely. But it doesn't matter, because I can't believe you.

I want to.

I've always had the impression that i'm going in two directions at the same time. I want to forget all that surrounds, go completely into myself, to learn how to be by myself. The other part fights it, wanting to hear other voices, other complements.

I'm just not sure which one is stronger, which one stems from deeper roots.

This comes from two things:

1.) a boy, who shall remain nameless, for whom I am unsure of my feelings.

2.) fear.

Of everything.

I have constantly defined myself by other artists. Defining myself has become a difficult task. It means i have to break habits, habits of thought, expression. I dealt with this in my essay.

I feel as if i am going to define myself by my work, my art, and if it is not representative of who i am, than i am lying, and then it is vacant. Then I am void.

when you're inside all this noise, it's hard to hear the static.


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