I’m angry. I want a cigarette like I cannot describe, to the point that I may just go for a drive to get one. I’m so close to giving in. This. Fucking. Close.
I spent sometime today thinking up a mass amount of projects I want to begin. It feels good to get this stuff out on to “paper” but as of recent I have been trying to express myself visually. Trying and failing.
Trying and hiding the evidence.
I have always kind of wondered that if a picture is worth a thousand words, who is the real artist? The one who takes the picture or the one who writes the perfect thousand words?
I’m always looking for the perfect thousand words, or maybe I’m just waiting for the perfect few to come out of his mouth. I have no idea who “he” is, though I guess I would if I’d just admit it to myself.
There are two sides of me, the one that’s painfully neurotic and the one that’s uncontrollably spontaneous. Recently I’ve rarely hit middle ground.
I spent some time today sneezing, reading my grandmother’s dusty love letters to the man she had an affair with, my step-grandfather. They are written on thin blue paper that is lighter, so as to save money when being mailed. Many of his letters are postmarked from Mexico. Many of hers are marked with moments of socialite gossip. He signed his Valentine’s cards with a question mark. They are all in their original envelope in a heavy brown leather suitcase marked with travel stickers from all over the world. The only one I can clearly make out still it from the “Grand Hotel Roma.” There are about 8 copies of the newspaper announcement of their marriage in the “society” section of the New York Herald Tribune in 1965, each copy folded perfectly and now yellowed perfectly in the large pocket of the suitcase, next to copies of their wedding invitations. I don’t know how they make me feel. Maybe just upset that I cannot write letters anymore. Maybe afraid that I option will take out the remaining love letters I didn’t destroy with the rest. Maybe just aggravated that his handwriting is so goddamn messy.
I want a cig. I want to get out of here. I took a day of today for the first time in weeks and it’s made me never want to go back. I have a mild fever. My body is yelling at me to rest but The option just isn’t really there, my mind is SCREAMING at me to get out. Out of this house, out of this country, Away from these people. God knows what. I feel the winds changing in me again and telling me to move and I am so stuck in place its causing me physical pain. If I had the money for the ticket I’d be on the next flight to Europe, even if i didn’t have a cent to feed myself once I got there. I am slowly losing weight, though none of it shows. I am slowly losing my ability to work in this world.
I think it’s high time I got myself into a little trouble.