Water

I paint my life on a chaotic canvas of black and red. Everything just keeps getting harder. And it seems like it has to be that way in order for me to be content. Everything has to be difficult, disheartening and dreadful. Trying to imagine what would make me content, just made me realize I would never be unless I was miserable. I don't know many other feelings than miserable. There are moments, but nothing lasting. And there is no other way to live. Try as I might, there is always something keeping me obsessive, psychotic, neurotic, thinking-too-much. Down and down and down. The best stories are of great conflicts. Drunks can get away with murder, simply because they forget everything.