Something is always missing, of course. But it shouldn't be, it really, really shouldn't be. There's something wrong even when nothing is wrong. Because i'm obsessed and vain and selfish and lazy. It used to be one of my favorite quotes; All writers are, at their core, vain selfish and lazy. It's true. I can feel it in the weight of my eyelids now, a body that wants nothing more than to lie still and go through the same motions of today, tomorrow, subtle variations that don't play to the right soundtrack and words spelled out in the air in invisible light paintings. Big tipped paintbrushes soaked and bleeding into the air, letters that nobody will ever read. Because it's a front, it's all merely a front. I'm so good at creating these facades, these false illusions of happiness that seem to radiate out from every smile and fingertip, guzzling jubilation until it bubbles up from my chest, spilling out and coating everything around me in merriment. But it's only a front if i let it be. Sometimes it's true and i believe with every little piece of myself that this is right and this is it and there's not the slightest bit of doubt or fear or regret or anything other than exhilaration in knowing, just knowing that it's completely and utterly right. Right now i don't know. Those are powerful words, those three. I don't know. Loaded despite their will power and destiny ripped away in a repetition of a trite easy way out. I don't know. Fuck sake, no more of this. No more of this uncertain cry from something more. Just fucking do something. This isn't about inspiration, this isn't about waiting for the right moment or the right time, rather jumping into the rain wet and cold and unexpected fast in rivers on bare skin and soaking through cotton. This is impulsiveness and elation and freedom and the thrill of life delicious on my tongue like unexpected orange bites in dark cocoa chocolate, like green tea scented soap or silk covers against skin flushed from a shower. Unrealistic expectations and burning desires that clench desperately at thin air, great tides of pent up insecurity and emotion churning in the pit of my stomach, clawing my insides to shreds. i'm so obsessed with this concept of reality, with these big words and ideas that don't mean anything. Not really. I'm always aspiring to this unattainable something, without knowing quite what it is. So i sit here, epic battles raging violently within me as i stare blankly out the window. All the passion and the anger and the violence and the insecurity and misery and the desperation, it's all being wasted. All the deliberation and great debates over what constitutes art renders me speechless, because this is it, we are living, breathing, lustful examples of art, we are walking emotion and life drinks deeply from our misery before churning us round and spitting us out. All this agonizing over unhappiness without realising that this is it, this is life