Painter madness

This life feels like a war. The hero and the villains are just me. It’s silly how many times I kill me in the mornings. I rise back up only to come eye to eye with my true worst enemy and best allies. The word insanity does not cover it. I go left its wrong, I faint right and I’m wrong. So many imperfections and all are madness. All I find true any of it is chaos. The fire melts the paper into ash and then becomes ink and then is the lifeblood of creativity. I don’t know how to win but maybe the win is never the point but the freedom of chaos is.

Be the ink and stain as you go. The marks are the eyelashes of the sleeping face and in the morning they have washed away only to be replaced every night. Pollack had this drunken madness of making like no one else and didn’t care if it lasts past his life. I want to adopt this idea of madness. It feels the heartbeat of truth in my time.

I think I'm going to start an endless war with myself in making. I wonder who will win?

Both will survive or both will die and both can choice the stillness of inaction but I want the fight.


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