awaking as a struggling artist

I awake with a hangover of a wicked concoction from the night before; bitter anger, biting cynicism and flu medication. It was as if nothing transpired since downing that shot, and a moment later I get up from a bed with a nasty headache.

I awake as a struggling artist. My writing pad is out, awaiting for the words to come out. Essay writing is both an art and science, is it not? It requires both your scientific knowledge of the subject-matter, but also requires the temperament and inspiration of the writer. Like a struggling artist, I sit in my loft, staring at the blank easel before me, with a hangover, and nothing comes.

photo from www.deviantart.com

I bite into my stale croissant and cheese, washing it down with soury milk. I grimace. But that is is the role of the struggling artist, to be put in his place, to be shackled by his simple desire for perfection, and taste the awfulness of what life has to offer in the process.

All this is getting too abstract. Keep it simple.

But each time I try to paint, my brushes break, the water spills, the paper tears. Has that not happened to you before? Each time you try to get back on your feet, the same person comes to knock you over. Perhaps not on purpose, but they sure do. And soon, you might not try getting up anymore, but just sit on the ground and laugh a long cynical laugh. Has that happened to you?

I'm starting to think I'm going to just pick myself up and laugh a long cynical laugh. I am an accidental friend. So?

Uncle T