so i ruined a painting.
failure. that sucks. that fucking blows. it was gorgeous, amazing, beautiful, subtle the one i was most proud of, needed just a few finishing touches, and in my impatience i have destroyed something beautiful.
i ache, with the pain of my own hand in causing destruction, there’s no pleasure no satisfaction in the destruction of beauty, only guilt, only suffering.
Facing my demons again, I am worthless.
true love never knew a sadder tale than mine as a destroyer, never lamented so loud as when i embraced it.
destruction is in these hands, suffocation is at the ends of these hands.
the cause of all the evil in the world: I am. just like chesterton.
and all that jazz. today, i feel aching unbearable isolation and my world is a jagged and barren place devoid of contact devoid of love, and I am the whore at the center. on the stage, and ridiculed, objectified and reduced, manipulated and the manipulator.
heh, fucking miserable name. today, you can see inside me and know that I’m a sham, a trainwreck happening faster than light, colliding into myself i only serve to drink myself into depression, and starve myself into insanity.
don’t touch me, don’t you dare light my candle again.
you can’t have me.
fuck your endless misery, and fuck mine too.
fuck the paintings, fuck my lessons in pain and suffering. fuck awareness.
I am alive but at what cost?
i don’t know.