Everybody's making pictures. Why can't I?
That is all I think about in my down time (of which there has not been much lately). I resent The Factory for stealing my days, of course, as the most beautiful light illuminates the world as I sit under fluorescent lights behind my institutional desk. I chafe and I worry. My life is petering out, a whimper, not a bang.
Last night, I came home in a terrible mood. I sat on the couch and watched YouTube videos about cameras. I just geeked out. Ili made dinner and gave me wine, and still I was hideous. I hit the cat on the top of the head with the t.v. remote because she wouldn't stop staring at me.
I went to bed and dreamed photography.
What sort of sickness is this? It is the sickness of desire for something you cannot have. Life is like that, right? You must give up one thing you want for another. You either do that or you become an artist. Those are the choices.
Life is terribly inconvenient.
This morning, the air is diamond-like, the world screaming with sunlight.
I will go to the gym. I will work at The Factory.
I will remain haunted by my deep and dark desires.
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