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I am on the can in the middle of a shit because the bathroom is a safe place. I can be alone here and nobody will bother me. A great need to be alone with my feelings is in order. New beginnings are supposed to be good. Instead, it feels complicated, disordered, unhappy, and overwhelming. I am overwhelmed with the hardship we've fallen into. I am overwhelmed with having a home in foreclosure. I am overwhelmed with moving. I am overwhelmed with trying to sell it. I hate the circumstances surrounding the demon it is. It is just that: Some hellacious demon that's a part of me. I wish I could paint and sit on the floor and draw. I don't understand why I avoid it, why a flower catalogue is more gripping than the actual process of starting a painting. I have guilt surrounding the exclusiveness of it.
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