【Muse】

Day 2
28/05/17

     I forgot what it was all for—picking up my pen, my paintbrush, sat for hours and forcing myself to scribble a series of meaningful words or lines onto parchment I’d inevitably just toss away—or toss into portfolios, a mere rubbish bin with pretty labelling. Though I claim it’s all for stress relief, learning to remain calm, I stress over the thought of failing to meet the conservative goals I set myself the day prior. Just a few hundred words, I can’t force any more out without the muse—just one painting, no need to make something heartless and equally pointless.

     “That in itself is a story,” I assure myself while scraping at the bottom of my inkwell for any substance that survived my temporary renaissance, forgotten in the past yet appreciated despite how set in stone it is—stone that cannot be re-carved, forever in the past and never recreated without a new canvas, a new purpose, and perhaps even some time.

     I end up diluting everything that’s left—wondering who dried up my well, and how they managed with such expert quickness. The heavier strokes born of potent desire aren’t short enough to be transcribed in the bold they deserve, though the watered down and shallow tales of generic woe have been watered down with saline mixes, light enough to be seen, carried across an infinity of pointless, unsatisfying scrolls. Struggling to find a balance I only watch my hourglass’ neck run wider, the sand slipping from its cheaply blown grasp. The future is non-existent as far as I might perceive, the past growing in record, the hours wasted piling higher than meagre excuses for successes and achievements, failures made through nonattendance becoming a notable trend. Yet even so, knowing my history and how it might continue, I’m wrought with asthenia, low motivation and energy alike—not having the means the meet the ends, or even ends to find the means for to begin with. I’d call it a paradox, though it’s simply a pattern developed through laziness and depressions stacking akin to status depuffs...it has plagued me for so long and continues to do so—though pray it makes a story, hope it might find itself to words, and the audience void of voice or argument merely to hear me—and in the event, they listen, let me hope they’re not to assume illness. I’ve heard it all, goal setting, deadlines—all opportunities for my most blessed and consistent skill: procrastination.

     If I could be paid for taken naps in favour of hours worked, I’d live in the comfort I dream I deserve—though I know it’s not to be, never to be. I’ll starve until I become the artist, as opposed to a blind and directionless trail of ink demanding praise for my mundanity and lesser poise.