Hungry.

You see, it wears on me, like an un-tuned string - pushing and pulling
by the bow of mediocrity. What is it that drives me to tears and pulls
my strength from my core? What is it that takes the soul from my eyes
and turns little salt crystals such as these to liquid and causes them
to drip from freckle to freckle connecting the dots? I am still lost. I
am still searching to grasp…to understand this thing inside me. This
thing I call Artist. This thing that I feed with paint and pigment and
toxic chemicals that serve my body cancer on a silver platter. It is
creation. And with creation there is always sacrifice. So what am I
sacrificing now? My sanity. My rite to comfort. My gentleness. My
ability to make sense. Though I wonder, does it really matter…to make
sense? Wouldn’t it be nice if words could be exchanged so that the
heart is full and the mind is hungry and the ego is somewhere in a corner bleeding from its stab wounds?