Life does imitate art for it surely doesn't imitate life in this day and age. We constantly battle nature's law, we make our own; what crafty gods and godesses are we, what scripters of good and evil! I have had to tear and claw my way out of these most heinous canvasses and they will never leave me. They will always be this grotesque part of me; scarred, crippled and too big or messy to get over or around. Perhaps I am just too lazy or tired or both to overcome. Perhaps it is not in me. Perhaps this deceit is too complete ending in only death; in freedom, the truest product of the truest servitude. Faith. Letting go. Nobody is free. Thinking always gets the best of me, holding me down, salting my wounds, seperating me from you. And you know what? I like it. I don't want to be one of you. Life is ugly and painful. I would rather be a miserable life than happy art. Loneliness is the path of those beyond systems and rules and fantasies, so take comfort in friends and other weary travellers. If you ever get tired of it all, their will always be a place for you in the big fantasy, the big opiate, the big religion, the big science. Yes, you can always go back. Hell, I might even go back someday, but if I did, I doubt anything would be the same and it would pass over my feathers like water. Send me some kindness, please, and please forget about me.

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