I lay under a haze of sleep supplements and flickering candles. I cannot edit my book because my computer is being stubborn and refusing to charge. I resort to automatic writing until I hit some wall, then I return to reading Justine, a book that reminds me of just how many words there are in the English language.
In between I am twitching with a hunger to devote myself to a project, or a clear purpose. One that may come from the imagination, but also lives outside of it, growing and expanding in the day to day.
Having Venus in the 10th house, I discovered, makes it very hard for me to not associate love with success. I fear so much losing the love I have in my life for never being important enough or successful enough. I loathe that success is a quick skip away from wealth, wealth from security.
The other day I remembered that I am as much as an artist when I’m practicing as when I’m not. I’m starting to practice again and the world is getting bigger, feeling more synchronistic, I told A. I realised that a greater calling in mine is to be an artist a for myself and for others, to develop a fortified relationship with creativity so I can always trust it will be there. I tell myself to myself, that this dedication will bring all the success I could ever need. That everything is already there for me, just as all the tools and ideas and time there to make some goddamn art.
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