Fear of My Desires

I could be embarrassed by how afraid I am of failure and of obscurity. These things stop me more than I am comfortable with. I am past being ashamed about them. The subtle traumas of my original desires can be adressed. I can process it. But I have to be candid and I have to be strong. What did I even want to do with my art? What stories were important?

HOWEVER, I am ashamed I have not kept in contact with people that I valued so much. My value had no meaning without action. If you are reading here, I miss you, and we should talk sometime. I’m more of a person now, and a better individual after a few years. I am ashamed, but not embarrassed. Many people neglect and even refuse to weave the threads of connection to include others in their personal fabric. The fabric bows and bends, it tugs and tenses. Not made of knots, but of loops. Or links. Or braids. If at any point, anyone were to come say hi to me, I would find it a pleasure.

I miss the people from my past. I sure hope I’m not trying to distract myself from an uncertain and doom-addled future. Teachers. Friends. Strangers. I miss them. I have some of their phone numbers still. Others I have tried and heard nothing back. The silence can be months, could be half a year, some now it’s many years. Was I that attached to people I never built relationships with? What am I attached to now? People still fuel me. I’m an entertainer, and the audience is more valuable than gold. But outside of the story, I feel like the audience to everyone else. And now that it’s been years without the connections, I feel a loss of purpose in waking life. What to do? Obviously, with this time, some art.

Baby hasn’t done a lot of art at all. Baby feels bad. Superglue baby back to feeling better. (That’s for you, Dan.) At least I can make a good quality American Omelette. Some skills may or may not be transferrable.

Is it Love? Or Desire? (re: Sarazanmai)
Are you human or animal? (re: Dune)