good morning beautiful

what i like to think it looks like inside my mind

So here I am each morning, agonising and self reflective as only a true tortured artist can be. I write about the rain parched, desolate terrain of the artistic temperament. In the hope that normal people, unburdened by my lofty aspirations, can at least get a glimmer of what they, poor two dimensional people, could never hope to encounter in their dull, ordinary, lives.

While I do this, the machinery of mind whirrs and rumbles in the background. There is a constant nagging undertone which gnaws and eats away at my wonderful inspired ideas. It gnaws away in, I would like to say, ever more inventive and destructive ways. But if the truth be told, and it irks me to say this, it seems that I am quite more simple, far easier to waylay, than I would like you to think.

what it actually looks like in my mind

This is an ego double whammy- I am offended that it doesn't have to go to any great lengths, be creative, inventive, even particularly interested, to think up new and cunning strategies to thwart me. And it is just this self obsessed introspection that is the precise indicator of my thralldom to the not-so-subtle machinations of the ancient adversary.

Always an over achiever at under achieving, I do not just swallow the hook, line and sinker. I take the rod and most of the anglers arm too and gulp it back deeply and blindly. It usually will take a while to extricate this mess of metal, nylon, carbon fibre, bone and gristle, and an assortment of other nasty little things.

And there is the clue there to the purpose of such awful habits. Time is spent in efforts to solve these problems, which pile up and become astonishingly difficult to solve. Time can be spent, energy expended, life wasted, regrets amassed, filed and later pored and picked over, nursed and fed.
This too takes time (to do it right).

Reading this back I am laughing at myself, my art, my pretension, my preciousness.

Who really gives a shit?