As soon as I crawl into bed, my blood starts to boil. Every night.
“I could have done this and I should have done that,” I sigh, “I wasted my day again.”
I keep promising myself things. I draw plans I will never execute. And then, I always wish I had written more, read more, worked more, loved more, ran more…
I am growing old, getting fat, losing hope, going mad.
I want to become better and do more, so where do I start?
But do more for what? What is the big dream here? What is the goal? I need an answer, but I don’t know where to find it.
I have a heart and I follow it blindly it seems, like an idiot, like an ass. There is no big dream, only impulse. No future, only present.
It is not a great thing to only live in the present.
More than once I spat at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. More than once I considered myself a failed artist. More than once I cried in despair…
I look at my paintings sometimes and wonder what will happen to them when I die. Will they ever mean anything? The observers, will they understand anything, feel anything? I don’t think so.
What am I writing? Where is this going?
When I look at the stars, I think of multiverses and then ask myself, “In what dimension am I worth something? In what dimension do I matter?”
Sometimes, when I am alone in some bar or coffee shop, with a notebook and a pen, things that cannot happen start happening.
Like now. I will begin right now. I will write something now.