Homage to graffiti

I used to paint on billboards and highway signs and concrete with spray paint when I was a kid. “I’ll never fall off,” I’d say to myself, tiptoeing around in the street at 3 am. Falling off, in graffiti, means to not be up. 

There isn’t anything else like seeing your own name in ink on things in the city. It’s better than everything. I’d try to get the drips just perfect as I squeezed the marker. I’d come home with paint under my nails and sleep all day. I was 18 and everything was chrome and black. I spent afternoons walking around with my friends under bridges or over train tracks, looking for our next spot. Spots. It was all about spots. 

Graffiti became entangled in the nature of my very being. For a while, all I cared about was getting up. I met all the players. It’s truly a boy’s sport, however, here I was, impressing all the guys with my insane spots and almost stylish tags. Letters and fonts took over my thoughts. I have always loved words. Now, I barely write graffiti anymore because I sleep at night and it really is meant to be done at nighttime. I could never forget all those summers we ran in the city, driving by our own hits with stars in our eyes.