I am dawning on sleep, my body aching from neglect. The blank page calls out to me as does the ocean to a sailor. I have been fighting this thing, this art thing. Fighting both to forget and to remember. Expression. I have grown so weary of the arrogance and pathetic qualities of the majority of artists I have met. Absolute fakes. The worst of us. But I should not disgrace the actual medium, the way of life that is art. Even if it is taking its last breaths, the death rattle as everything becomes commodified and drained of power. I must rebel. I must destroy. I must not fear being called arrogant myself. The voice that says I am just as weak and pathetic as these people I call them, that I am no different, why not prove myself wrong? There must be a test. A way to test the genuine and true. To separate it from the rest. If we can no longer tell the difference we are in trouble, and we are losing that sight. Revive.

I am weary of this spiritual solitude from kindred spirits. I am hungry to connect. To love again, the stage. Words. Breath. Acting. Literature. Colours of paint. The world. What have I forgotten?

Everything.