Very scattered this week. More so than usual. I haven’t made a mark on a page since last Sunday. I know that things have happened since then, but my mind only wants to make a few hours out of them. How do a few hours make a week? Have I spent so much time sleeping or trying to sleep?
I’m trying pretty hard not to get paranoid about my mind, my screwy memory.
But you probably should be paranoid about that shit. Folks have always known what a flaky mess you are, but it’s getting to the point where even you can’t miss it, right?
I’ve always known. What’s the use of paranoia?
Anyway, I have a couple of backgrounds done, waiting for me to turn off the computer and hide from the tv. This might be a good day for a bout of free writing. Something is pulling at me, and this feels like the closest I can guess as to what it might be.
It’s stormy out. I like it, but I’m a little unsettled by it.
This is the last art journal page I finished. I loved being in the lines while it was happening.
But it looks like something you would have drawn in high school.
Yes it does.