Blogs are a weird thing, almost like a diary but a diary you would secretly want to be read? Don't we all.
I go on here on late nights, when I have exhausted all other options on what to try and do. story of my life; a constant struggle to try and do something worth a damn. Because there was one moment when I realised how small I was, and how urgent it was that if I wanted to be anything special I was going to have to do everything as best as I can.
But like any human being I get weary, and I get tired. But unlike some human beings I can't rest easy, it always feels like I am on borrowed time.
I have evolved into an interesting creature over the following months, dipping into the more antisocial part of my personality. I am too absorbed in everything I am doing. every moment I paint I feel like it is the only immediate thing I can offer to the world before I am gone. Desperation is a part of my motivation, a desperation for greatness, something more. My whole life is a gamble I either succeed at such an amazing feat or die trying. the odds don't look good.
Motivation is a combination of love and stress compounding.
Time to do homework for a class that seems to be about everything I already know when I would much rather paint.
motivation is a combination of love and stress compounding.
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