{ stream of conciousness }

Driving. Headed west, my initial direction, but soon abandoned, trip constricted by time. Time of others, not of me. Why can't everything stay open until I am ready to go out? Slept too long. Painted too little. Read just the right amount. My book is in the couch cushions behind me; I want to grab it and read until I finish. Then what? Nothing else to read, but I did buy a magazine today. Vanity Faire. When did I start liking that? Driving west, crest of the hill, looking out over everything. At the painting God has graced me with tonight. Blues and pinks and blurred white and gray clouds. I could never paint like that. But I think that's the point -- if life outside wasn't more beautiful, what would inspire us?

I can feel myself changing. Blurring around my own edges. Transmuting like lead to gold? Enjoying things I never imagined. Yearning to do paintings? Journaling with more ease? Simple mornings. Paint specked nail polish. Playing with dogs. Part of me has fooled the rest that I might be a real artist. With shows and such. Is this possible? Why can't I really believe it with all my heart? Because my paintings don't sell online. I lose faith. I feel let-down. So many people like my art, but not enough to buy. I don't know what I will do next month. Why has the zine only sold 30 copies? Failures. Disapointments.

I don't understand. I will look at the setting sun. It is safe. Beautiful. Alive.