January 17, 2002
At war with no scenery to fall
The depression has set in—this time with great strength. Gee, I wonder if it’s because I never know what the fuck I’m going to be doing at work. I’m not in touch with reality! I’m doing everybody’s job! I wake up in the middle of the night stretching very hard and long—am I like a snake trying to shed his skin? Do I have the strength to pull from me this layer of bullshit? Reality is fantasy, only because we do everything not to embrace reality. Until then, I’m nothing more than a fat Shakespearian dreamer with Picasso inabilities. My paintings are real, but not the heart that placed them on paper. Depression is when you’re left standing in a room looking at yourself, and that self says, “I’m damn glad I’m not you today.”