ghxsts bio picture


Welcome to my blog!

Hello my name is: Icicle Audacity. All I see are ghxsts. I'm the misguided stride for self improvement - a sadistic, futuristic machine. A hollow cold emitted through vibrant lights, it’s a warm as wool winter but I’ve got a chill I can’t shake. This is what I am & I think I’m fine in my own misguidance. My bones are frozen, my marrow has turned to ice - my body is just a body, a corpse without a head. I'm just a vessel & my brain has long been dead.

Dylan McAmmond
En Vogue Photography

"That's really the only thing that matters to me, is that I make art for a living. And if I make art for a living... I win."

imitation of fiction

Stories are imitations of life, an art of illusions and wishes and fate and comedic timing. Coincidental and neatly trimmed. Perfect in its disasters, kind of how the writer dreams of it; you know – authorial fantasies. Being able to create something. Mould it & shape it. Make it beautiful and make it how it can never be realistically, but make it so with words. Fuck with readers’ minds. Make them feel what can’t be felt. Become sculptors, shape their minds & hearts & every waking breath. Writers are fucking control freaks.

We’re led to believe that life imitates art. We imitate art, art imitates life, art imitates us, art imitates art: there is no life imitating art. We have no plot, title, characters, or soap opera music resounding when our hearts break. The world doesn’t stop & let us off when we have had enough. We are not characters in books, we are wracked by nerves & nightmares & fumble & daze through lulls in our lives.

A story is words sewn together with rough stitches and modifying adverbial clauses. Characters who do not exist because they do not live. It is made of the patches life spat out at us & neatly arranged to make sense of the disorder.  We are loose ends and poorly-timed poetry. We are alive with our blood and lack of metaphors. We will never stop existing, only stop living.

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