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. 


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