Starting with the longest hair on the top of my head, to the stinkiest skin flakes on the soles of my feet, I pick myself apart bit by bit and put as much Tyler into the world as physics will allow. In my jobs, in my relationships, in my daily life, in my desires, in my dreams, and, most recently, in my writing. I’m trying to get to the cores of things. I’m trying to expose and reveal the inner-workings of my mind and the world as I see it in ways that others will be entertained, find solace, find truth, laugh, be pleasantly offended, be piqued, find music, be shocked, or even just a discover a slightly different way of viewing the world.
I kill myself slowly and deliberately with nights of little sleep, burning the candle on both ends so I can support doing what I love until doing what I love can support itself. I lose sleep dreading that this is a passion that will fall wayward and I’m a phony. I kill myself slowly and deliberately by not shying away from hard experiences or self-realizations, because I want to share them with the world. I kill myself slowly and deliberately because I possess a sanity-rattling combination of anxiety and curiosity that I poke and prod in the name of art.
I kill myself slowly and deliberately because I need to create and I have no other choice.