My art. I am destroying my paintings, feeling so unsatisfied with what I see. I have given up on painting flowers. I have to paint. It keeps my mind off of pain, it keeps anxiety at bay, it keeps me inspired and engaged and wanting to reach something. This something is nowhere, I can't grasp it, I don't know what it is. I feel estranged from what comes out onto the canvas. I don't understand what it is telling me. Maybe I do, and I just don't want to see it. How mediocre I am. How I don't know how to paint flowers. How I don't know how to create depth, or foreground and background. How impatient I am. How impulsive. How wasteful with the paints. How critical and self-effacing I am. How miserable I feel. How aching is my body. How unsure. How afraid. How directionless. How messy and clumsy and angry and despondent and broken down I am. I take it all out on my paintings, I search for the ancient, for the used, for the layers, the peelings, the forgotten, the all alone, the terrified, the uncertain.....And I can't paint flowers.


I can't paint flowers. At least not the kind that you want me to paint. I painted you blue flowers and you destroyed them. I painted a table that looked like a woman's body. And a dark red vase that looked like an open wound. And you destroyed it.


I can't understand what I am trying to reach. I am mostly tired, aching, pained. Mostly struggling, mostly fighting.


Fighting with myself.


Mostly not accepting myself.