(no subject)
I found my wonderful pencil. It was just clipped inside my old "drawing bag" which I exchanged out for an actual purse The purse keeps me from going insane because if I'm not going to be doing any drawing, why have a bag big enough to carry a fucking sketch book in? Which brings me back to this damned pencil. Why was I so intent on finding it? It's not like if I could hold it again my talent (if there ever was any) would come rushing back. In fact, I'm holding it right now and nothing is happening. I still can't find any inspiration. I still can't enjoy myself. I have no thing any more. How am I suppose to go on with no grand idea like, "I'm here now, but this is what I want to do to later so I don't have to be one of those people with no passion, and I'm working toward that," huh? I'v always had a thing, and now I don't so everything else is suffering. I've put the suicide crap behind me but I can see no reason to continue functioning any longer. There's this cold, dead space that every time I think about it and I'd have panic attacks if I had any drive at all. There's just nothing.