I feel totally sick. My eyes hurt. My whole body aches.
In the good way, though. That satisfied exhaustion you feel at the end of a long day full of accomplishments; the burn after a good workout.
Except that I’m not going for a toned body, or even for health for that matter.
I’m trying to become an insane artist.
I admire those crazy whacky souls – mad as matters, all of them – that sacrifice their bodies and even their sanity for that elusive and seductive muse.
I’ve been eating sporadically, only taking time out of my schedule for it when I feel like I’m going to collapse if I don’t. I stay up for 36 hours at a stretch and then sleep for 12, usually, or just nap whenever. I guzzle cups of coffee – one for every hour I’m awake – and chain smoke every 20 minutes.
I’ve barely seen the sun in.. months now, I guess it’s been. Winter. Blah.
No such thing as fresh air or exercise. Abrasive noise music or intense heavy metal is what I treat myself to; noxious fumes and poor ventilation.
My skin feels waxen. As I said, I feel sickly. Constantly nauseated. Weary, but with a burning passion to keep driving onward.
I’m a glutton for pain and discomfort. I can’t seem to make it ever stop, so my only course of action is to inflict so much of it upon myself from so many different stimuli that I can’t tell what is what anymore. Because pain is my muse. My art comes from channeling this negativity into something beautiful, transmuting the leaden thoughts into gold.