I’m Ezra Miller, and I’m here with the One Billion Rising action in Times Square, joining many people all across the planet in a hope to end the rape culture. One in three women in the world will experience domestic violence or rape within the course of their lifetime. To me, I grew up in a household of women and I feel that all revolutionary causes should start with addressing misogyny.
Ezra Miller rocks!
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.
Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 3: Dream Country
An artist without a muse: here is a recognised sadness. But what about a muse without an artist? Or can a muse, by definition, only exist in the presence of an artist? That seems unfair, because an artist is always an artist, even when they’re not producing art. So the muse is defined only by the artist’s recognition? So the artist pops to the toilet and while he’s out of the room the muse is… what?