FEAR FEAR FEAR fear fear fear Fear FEAR FEAR fearrrrrrrr
Love is better. I will learn how to love. How to love my hands, my feet, my night gown and the pillow I am sitting on. And this obscure bathroom which I occupy instead of some decent room. I prefer that, it is smaller and I can concentrate.
I am an artist. Believe me. I have a soul. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. My work is to activate it. To explore it. To feel it. To understand. It MUST be alive. Otherwise there is coldness and indifference. Well, I was never a big fan of love, but now, after years of thinking, I see there is no other way. Even if your love is stupid or it is a love for something stupid. Like for the pattern on your night dress.
Colors. I am going to slowly replace most of my blacks and grays for colors. That’s what I need now. I need some life, even if it’s stupid and doesn’t make any sense. Well, I just cannot go like that any longer. Even if it is sugary and not intelligent enough. Even if it doesn’t fit me. Love, that’s ridiculous. Pathetic. Let’s laugh together. Hatred and complain it’s much smarter. I AM really thinking that. That’s my life script. You know that nothing good is gonna happen so it’s better not to be a pathetic fool. It’s better to sit and contemplate. Or criticize. And be like a wasteland. I am really thinking that. Well, it makes me sick already. There is a cottonwool in my head. A lot of cottonwool. And pain in my body, all over. Neck, the whole spine.
Spirituality- I got a fresh interest in it – although I DO KNOW it’s stupid- it’s an activity for stupid women and haunted men. Weak people with no merit. Not intelligent enough. It’s really what I think, I am not mocking anybody as you might think. I am deadly serious. But I am sick of my seriousness. I DO NOT LIKE IT.
I guess we are all like that, us, intellectuals. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s my family or maybe it’s me or…I cannot write anymore… the sound from this fucking, terrible pipes in this bathroom are riding through my brain. And my neck.
Yes, I am a wreck, freaking, unsympathetic neurasthenic. I dislike myself but I have a reason. This persona which possesses me sometimes – like today for example – reminds me of some grumpy, old man. Book smart. With a mocking smile on his cold, rectangular face. I dislike him. He is such a smart ass. Completely without a heart and juice. And he dislikes flowers.