But before I begin, fuck fuck fuck fuck…
this is not the way today
i am not a wowy….wow
maybe i need my brain scanned

Start of BS

A modern artist is like a box of chocolates. Unfortunately, I seem to not be in a box of this sort, bu rather packaged into a bag of homogeneous, historical, unpopular Twizzlers. Perhaps due to my lack of formal art education or whatever, I never thought I needed to find a niche. My education is from reading text, visiting museums and galleries. Painting as art is sensual of course. I suppose I need to change my conventional approach, but I was expecting to do that after I got my break. I never got a break. Fate I guess.

What does becoming dispassionate have to do with living in hell? I don’t know. I can guess it is a method out, but I am unsure. I suppose it rings true, but is it serendipitous? The way out alternatively, is through hard American work; back-breaking, painkiller-taking hard work. The third option would be to play ignorant; continue taking my time, aloof attitude and wishy-washy way. I am not in hell. Things are moving forward in time for the sake of some unknown, unexplored future undertaking; the way I more or less currently think about my existence. The problem is not in the definition, but in the true experience. One is not certain of hell, unbeknownst. It carefully creeps in and leaves one bewildered. True knowledge of hell would precipitate change. True knowledge requires self-awareness. But there’s a double-edged sword. To become aware like that, puts one in a rather helpless state. Such horrid conditions would result in panic and anxiety unless the tools to quickly find passage out are available. There is mechanism of self-protection. Overwhelming realizations hardly occur. Usually a more subtle hint is given, at the expense of the individual not catching on. But still, words are not meaningful unless they resonate at the core. Thus one needs to increase self-realization slowly – to avoid self-annihilation – to determine this validity of such a hypothesis.