This lack of creativity kills me. I find nothing interesting enough to draw; no dreams escape into the paper. My canvas remains a black void. Literally. I covered it in black oils to start a painting that I never had the inspiration to finish. Jazz. Blues. I sing them. I start writing my train of thought just to find a disorganized, one-track mind of beauty, makeup, wigs, and money. Those thoughts circulate and I'm finally sick of it.

I'm tired of trying on a new appearance each day.

I think the depression is coming back.

I'm afraid that it is.



The only thoughts that make sense in my mind are the lines. The lines of writing--dialogue...of a story. My story. As if a book is taking place in my head, as I think.


I'd like to write a book someday. But not about me. Right now I want to get far away from me. Away from this lack of personality and life. I feel like a waste of space.


I'm sorry. I have some self esteem kinks to work out.

I, I, I.
I hate that word.
I.