2004-11-27 - 9:15 a.m.

Sick and frusterated as the snow comes down, coating everything the way tar would. What happened was this: I became the center of everything, the warm ball of light which everything gyrated around, one of the few living cells on a dying organism -- I am the last tragic hero, and I am tired. If this were a Shakespearean play, I would be at the stage where everything I have seen and done would collide into everything I have yet to see and do, my past superimposing upon my future, and I would feel a deep, if fleeting, sense of regret. I do not feel regret. Instead, I feel nothing.

Sick and frusterated as the snow comes down, sticks, and refuses to melt away. What is happening to me now is enlightenment. I have finally learned that gaining anything at all is just a momentary acquisition, that getting ahead in life is just a trite metaphor, and now, my only objective is to learn how to paint -- because what else is there to do but paint? I'll stand at the brink of the metaphorical abyss and paint the apocolypse.

Sick and frusterated as the snow comes down, refusing to relent. Life is what you see when you finally decide to take a breath and look around.