What Is Real, Just a Dream

I've been working so hard lately. So hard. So So hard.

Damn.

I don't want to be creative today. I'm really mentally exhausted. For realz, my peeps.

I never thought of myself as a creative person; just sort of awkward, silent, and emotional.

Once, I painted, obsessively, for a year straight. Then moved to Seoul, and painted sporadically. I painted as if my life depended on it. It was somewhat weird. Crazy. I zoned out the world around me; I listened carefully to my tutors, all the weird side conversations became silenced, became white background noise. The mental confusion escaped, even for a moment. I analyzed, I was observant, hyper-real. I listened to people tell stories, half way believing in them, narratives of themselves, of who they are to me, of who they are to themselves. I focused on being a "good" artist. Of dreaming, or thinking, or crafting the tale of possibly becoming and architect. How did that notion come up all of a sudden? A strange epiphany, of epiphanies.

I am FOR the epiphany by the way. I don't know why; maybe b/c I was on drugs for a year, on E, and had a million epiphanies in a row. It was great, that was the whole high, besides just touch someone someone, not even sexually. It was a connection, apart of the epiphany, apart of newness.