I have a strange relationship with my art right now. I am now feeling as I have drifted apart from my artist self? As if the comparative easiness with which the words come seduced me away from the toil and martyrdom that making lines was? Is making lines supposed to be martyrdom at all?
I've wanted it all my life. I can now have it. But do I want it anymore?
Though maybe it's just my brain going into survival mode on this final stretch. No martyrdom except that which is absolutely necessary.













