A variation of one of my first paintings, when I started this sort of work as a way to cope and long before I knew I could expect worse.
I barely made it through this day. I feel trapped and as if I’m being forced into silence, by having no time now to deal with my frustration in the better ways I know to. At the same time, it’s not like I’m ever really heard anyway. My voice and loud piano annoy people, the lines I write are a foolish mess and I’m always so empty of worth. No wonder I prefer the hunger pains. Somehow it means something within is still trying to fight the hollowness. Physical hurt will always make more sense.