I think I need a new job. A real job. I find myself exhausted with my head hurting at the end of every day of painting or just thinking about painting. It has become a chore. It has become the thing that produces the excuse to sleep late. It has become an enemy.
I am not one who can cope with a dead end and I feel as though I am at THE dead end. I do not have the character or the stamina to find another route. I have to turn around and go back. Something is wrong with me. I don’t have “it.” I was not born with nor was there grown in me drive, determination or will to push forward.
After all, the idea of closing myself in a room and slopping paint on a stretched piece of cotton is a pretty self-centered, self-focused activity. And for what? It bears no fruit. I feel a profound sense of relief in telling the truth, in letting go of what has been such a burden.