I am probably the most motivated lazy person you’ll ever meet. I am perpetually dissatisfied with where I am and am constantly scheming on ways to get out, though I swear I never actually get anywhere. I will eventually, I always do, but it’s never soon enough. Every time I get everything sufficiently figured out to act, one or a thousand things suddenly pop up out of nowhere to tell me I’ve been barking up the wrong tree and send me running back to my thoughts yet again. I never really know where I’m going until I get there, and even then I generally don’t know what the hell is going on, though I still do my best to keep others from really cartching on to this. I obsess about everything in the artificial twilight of my room, writing mindless page after page wishing some of these things might eventually come together to form some kind of brilliant manifesto. I read thousands of pages of literature and ramblings, living vicariously in two dimensions through printed text on dead trees. I braodcast my thoughts to the world, convinced that among six and a half billion people worldwide there must be a stray handful that actually care enough to read them. I sometimes worry about switching back and forth between printing and cursive for fear that some future individual will look back through my private writings and think less of me for it. I live every hour of my life half-believing that I will be dead five years from now and so must make every critical decision of my life immediately and without the smallest error. The threat of (false) impending death drives me to distraction, though I know quite well that this solves nothing and produces little but madness. Every time I create something, I want to tear it down to the ground, burn it, and make something better, which will inevitably meet the same end. I am quite convinced that my friends think I’m insane. This is a picture of my neurosis which I have painted and which, despite honest effort, can only ever tell an infinitessimal fraction of the whole involuted story.
