I think I tried to go to bed too early. As soon as my head hit the pillow, scary thoughts danced behind nervous eyelids. I was not ready for bed, I was ready to be distracted. Here I am, distracting myself.

What kinds of thoughts gnaw at me? The kind where the person I’m attached to wants out. I have longstanding trust issues. I do not and cannot seem to believe that I can be loved in large quantities or for prolonged amounts of time. If affections happen to rise above a certain subconscious waterline, the worst is happening; either that person is about to leave, is using me for nefarious reasons, or is humiliating me. Sometimes a combination there of.

Fear of abandonment, I think that’s the casual label shrinks like to toss about. It’s an irrational fear. I’m near certain it’s a form of paranoia. Not the kind where the gubment is hunting you down or everyone is persecuting you. It’s a fear where people you love are the most untrustworthy. Consider the absurdity of that for a moment, the more you love someone the less you trust them.

I’ve been wrestling with that retardation for a long long time now. I’m sorry to post I still haven’t gotten it quite right.

Supposedly I’m a good artist. That is to say, I have a knack for it. being a business man and selling my wares a little less so. I have these heart wrenching moments what I say to myself and, I earnestly believe, I can do this. “This” naturally meaning “Art.”

To be quite honest, I think art is the only thing I can do. When something as complicated as surviving is plopped into my lap, how vexing that I cannot combine the two? I strenuously doubt I ever will be able to mix the two concepts into a frothy happy way of life. I am just as cursed in being unable to divorce myself from either. I need to survive, and somewhere, somehow, someway, I need to art

I was thinking, amid my paranoid delusions moments earlier, that one day I’ll have the maturity, presence of mind, and emotional stability to create and sell art and survive. Pessimistically, I was also thinking that when that time came, my skills will have atrophied beyond repair.

Thus is life, eh?

All this art had-wringing is brought on by the fact that I bought $75 worth of frames today, that I am excited about the project I’m working on for art class, that I feel obligated to turn the investments made profitable . . . As soon as I write that list, a practical voice tells me, I’m throwing good money after bad.

Welcome to my comedy. I’m gonna relax a little, smile, shrug, and hope for the best.

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