Then what happens. My soul fills up. It brims, overflows, floods. And there is nothing but this constant pouring with no abatement. And I want it to stop and I think I can dam the tide with writing but the writing won't come because I spend all my writing time getting paid for it.
And what I want now is to escape the cycle.
So here I sit and wonder about this. Having gone through maladies and tumbled through hereditary bruising yet again here I am. And what do I want to express.
I sit. But there is no enlightenment.
I work but it's only for the money.
I see people but so few of them see me.
I need to paint. I need creation I need to move, I need something something something.
Palliative whining is all I have.
It will come back. Two weeks ago I painted and then fell deathly ill. I've consoled myself in the arms of lovers, pretty girls with white thighs and longing, others with a stretch of arm and will and passion. But there is no consoling. I do not feel stilled. I do not feel passions wane, only more fire more need more desire.
Korea is stifling and I'm lost.
What will I be tomorrow?